


Deadline

by L4sht0n



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boys Kissing, Crime Scenes, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Rivalry, Slow Burn, They are both journalists in this one, They have to track down a serial killer, Thriller, Working for different bureaus but they work on a lot of the same cases and meets up, but not really, ish, set in 2019, they're all british in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L4sht0n/pseuds/L4sht0n
Summary: A serial killer is on the loose in London, but to the police, the killings are accidents, not murder. It's up to Luke Hemmings, a criminal journalist from The Times, together with a rivalling journalist Ashton Irwin to solve the case.  And sure, Luke had been wanting to get to know Ashton better, but in his mind, that didn't include dead girls, tears, terror and a killer that seemed to always stay a step ahead of them.
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood (side)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Meeting Ashton

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on Wattpad under the username -Night-Stalker-

[ ](https://ibb.co/GHR3HkT)

[ ](https://ibb.co/1LXcXP4)

PART ONE: ASHTON; RIVAL, COMPANION AND LOVER

Text and photos by Luke R. Hemmings.

Published: 07.09.2018 12:07. Edited: 07.09.2018 12:43

There she was. Lying on the ground, not moving, not breathing. Dead. Through the following months, I would see things that would leave me more frightened than I was when I discovered her dead body. But the image of her lifeless corpse still haunts me. She was number one, the first, one in the long line of the dead girls I'd see. The first dead body I saw.

Sure, I had seen dead bodies before. It was kind of part of my job. However, usually, they were covered up, or there was less blood. This. This was different. I had never seen anything as disturbing as this. Even though the body was unharmed, and there wasn't any blood at all.

April 26th is a day I can't forget. Every detail from the grey weather pouring down from the sky to the shirt I was wearing. Or the taste of the awful coffee I had, that lingered on an entire day – it's all impossible to forget.

The twenty-sixth day of April was the day I found Lily Emilia Davis' dead body. It was only a few minutes past 14:03 when I found her. I only know that by looking at the receipt I got from the taxi I took to the murder scene.

At the exact time I got there, he got there as well. Maybe it was fate or destiny. I don't know.

Still, the fact is that I found her the exact time as Ashton Irwin did. And that was the start of how we connected her death to two other murders and started tracking down the Clerkenwell killer. And that's exactly what I've been doing for almost five months straight trying to catch this killer.

But before I start writing about how Ashton and I tracked down the killer, and how in the end the police caught him. I will have to start before April 26th. Even long before April started. I must start before both of us found the body, before all the threats, before I was arrested and before the Clerkenwell killer was behind bars.

To understand the story, you must understand what happened before. How both Ashton and I was able to find Lily Davis. What relationship I had to Ashton. How the two of us decided to work together to track down this killer. To understand why the press said that a young couple found the dead body, the 26th, even though Ashton and I weren't dating at that time, we must go way back.

This is the story of how I met Ashton Irwin, and what happened after.

Taking the job  
I met Ashton on the 21 of February. Months before the Clerkenwell killer had made his first move. I'm not the romantic kind who remember the dates when I met my love interests. I don't know when I met my best friend, and I don't find dates that important. The only reason I know when Ashton and I met, was because we met during the BRIT Awards.

Every newspaper and television channel, even radio stations were there to cover the story. BBC, The Telegraph, The Daily Mail and so on. The Times had sent me to cover the story. Usually, I wouldn't cover these kinds of happenings. I'm a criminal journalist, I write about murder and accidents. I interview the police, lawyers, doctors and witnesses', not celebrities and fans. However, our journalist who usually did those kinds of stories was in Bali. Half the world away. And my editor thought it was a great idea for me to fill in. I disagreed.

I never had any interest in watching the Oscar's, the Tony's, the Grammy's or BRIT Awards. Much less did I have any interest in being there, interviewing the nominees. The thing was, this was not my kind of thing, and everyone knew it. My editor knew it, I knew it, my friends and my colleagues knew it. Everyone knew it. Not only did everyone know that I didn't do these kinds of things, but everyone else was a preferable option compared to me. Looking back, I don't regret taking the job, but at the very moment, I kind of was. 

Our best journalist on the subject was in Indonesia, but there were plenty of others that could step in that would make an article better than myself. Even the receptionist could make up something better than me. The thing that upset me the most was not that I was going to write the article, frankly, I was fine with it. However, that Wednesday I happened to have the day off. It was an agony to drag myself to the main office that day, knowing I could have spent it in bed had Melissa not been in Asia.  
But what didn't you do for a raise? 

I remember the phone call with my editor and myself going something like this. 

"Luke, I've got a job for you," Brian said exited through the speaker. My eyes were still heavy from waking up only seconds earlier. I was still in a dreamy state and only grunted in response. 

"You know it's my day off," I groaned. 

"Bullshit, you know the news never takes a break, if it did we'd all be unemployed," he ended the sentence with laughter and was only able to do this because he had drunk a cup of coffee. I on the other hand who hadn't had a much-needed cup of coffee was still grumpy. 

"Let me go back to sleep," I said and was ready to hang up. My bed was still warm, and I could still sleep a couple of hours without wasting the day. 

"Hemmings, I want you to cover the BRIT Awards," Brian told me ignoring my wish to sleep some extra hours. 

"Can't somebody else do it?" I asked. My plans today had consisted of doing absolutely nothing, not writing an article in one haul to finish it quick so the story could be printed in the morning edition. 

"Somebody else can write it, but I want you to do it. You know you're one of my best journalists. I'll pay you double," and that was all I needed to agree to take the job. Which Brian knew. He knew me too well and knew exactly how to make me work even on my days off. 

"Fine, but I better have my day off tomorrow," I agreed. 

"After the article is published, you can have your day off," Brian approved, and with that, he hung up. I stood up, not having my extra hours of sleep, and preparing myself for the event. What questions I was going to ask, what angle I was writing the story from and did other possible preparations for the big event. Still, a little aggravated I had to be the one covering the BRIT Awards. 

The first time I laid eyes on Ashton, the first time I introduced myself to the other man, the first time we spoke. – Overall, the first time I met Ashton Irwin was during the BRIT Awards. Right after that Michael, a good friend of mine, had dropped me off after driving me from London Bridge and drove me to The Millennium Dome, where the awards would be held. It's funny how I regretted going up to the point of our meeting, even though I didn't know what role he'd played my life.

Introducing Michael  
I don't remember most of our conversations, and most of it isn't important or related to the Clerkenwell killer, or this case. The conversation we had wasn't important at all, but because Michael and his boyfriend Calum, will show up much more in this case later. I'll write some of it so one can understand Michael and our relationship. Michael Clifford (24) has been a good friend of mine since university, and we somehow stuck together even after all our disagreements and bickering. 

"Man, why can't you just take the taxi like a normal person?" he asked me his voice filled with irritation. I knew he wasn't irritated with me, he was just irritated with the queue. Google Maps stated that the tour from London Bridge to The Millennium Dome would be around 30 minutes or so, but because of everyone wanting to come to see the BRIT Awards, the time was doubled. The queue wasn't the main reason behind Michael's annoyance. The prior reason to Michael's frustration was the fact that he wished to be at home in his flat with his boyfriend Calum. 

"Why bother to pay to be driven when you do it for free?" I replied with a cheeky grin, and he would probably have hit me, wasn't it for the fact that I was in the back. 

"What do you think this is?" he asked me, looking at me through the drivers' mirror, "charity? I don't do things for free." 

"Unless it involves sucking Cal's dick," I voiced, barely audible. I didn't know if Michael heard me, nor did I care. 

Either way, Michael didn't respond. Instead, he decided to degrade me further by complementing my set of clothes. It was my work clothes because I hadn't bothered changing for the event. I didn't see any reason to since I was going to be behind the camera anyways. That day I was wearing a black and white striped shirt, dark jeans and a long grey coat made out of wool. It was what I always wore, and I saw no point of changing. 

"Are you seriously wearing that to the BRIT Awards?" my blonde friend asked, sceptically. His eyes narrowed studying my attire but never leaving the road ahead. 

"Does it look like I have a spare suit with me?" I replied sarcastically. "I just thought that the great journalist, Luke Hemmings, would wear something more suitable for the event, but you do you or whatever," he retorted. Then falling completely silent and focusing on driving me to the event. I felt bad for Steve, the photographer that probably was waiting for me in the lobby, but I didn't do anything to ease the guilt. 

"I'm not a great journalist, I'm just a journalist," I answered, not very convincing. 

"Oh, so the few awards you have at home, mean nothing?" his green eyes met my blue in the mirror, but I couldn't keep eye contact, and gazed out the window. "Luke, you're 23 and have already a handful of awards. Some people spend decades trying to achieve one. It must mean you have a talent of some sorts." 

"Awards mean nothing," I muttered, again not sure if Michael even caught the words I said or not. Luckily, we didn't get more time to argue whether if I was a good or a bad journalist, because Michael pulled over, and I was quick to act. I opened the car door and closed it before Michael could say anything more. After 58 minutes of driving, I was finally at The Millennium Dome.

[](https://ibb.co/kyVQ2Z4)

Michael Clifford (24) is a good friend of mine and will reappear in the story later.

Meeting Ashton  
After Michael's black Audi drove away I entered the hall, trying to find Steve. My eyes scanned the crowd which consisted of national and international media channels. My only goal was to find Steve, and discuss what we were going to do, yet I didn't rush to find him. I found my phone quickly and typing a message to the photographer asking him where he was. 

The hall was full of people, and I didn't know how to locate myself, seeing as it was my first time here ever. I sighed when I got no immediate response and cursed myself for nothing planning this earlier. When some minutes passed without any response from Steve, I started walking around looking for the man. I tried not to interfere with the new channels, that was already set up their gear. Subtly I moved across the room, trying to find the photographer in his mid-30's. Sadly, I spotted no man brunet man with a huge camera. 

Usually, I took my own pictures, but this was the BRIT Awards. An event this big called for a more professional photographer than me. I was certain I had looked everywhere within the media restricted area and sighed in annoyance when I still hadn't spotted my colleague. Out of ideas of how to find Steve, I retreated to the bar and figured I'd find Steve when he wanted to be found. 

I sat down on a bar chair but ordered nothing. I couldn't drink on the job, if I did, it would be a great way on how to get fired. And I happen to enjoy my job. Once again, my eyes swept the crowd trying to find my co-worker, without succeeding. My mind wandered, and I wondered if Steve was sick, if he was he could at least have called in sick and given me the chance to bring a camera. Now I sat here like a fool without a camera, and maybe without a photographer. I checked my phone to see if he'd sent any messages, but there was none. 

When I shifted my eyes from the screen to the crowd, I was met with hazel eyes. – Which didn't belong to my co-worker. In front of me stood a tall man, probably not much older than myself. His brunet hair was slightly curly like mine, but where my hair was long his was somewhat shorter. The man was well-dressed, wearing a nice red silk shirt, and black blazer as well as black pants. Yet I knew he was here because of work, most likely within the media himself. He was quite handsome, but I didn't get the time to study his face before he spoke to me. 

"First time here?" he asked, and I looked at him confused. Not only because he could tell that this was my first time at the BRIT Awards, but also why he made an effort to talk to me. For what I knew we were rivals when it came to work. And we were both here because of that. Work. 

"How can you tell?" I asked, intrigued. 

"Your clothes," he answered simply, as he sat down on the barstool beside me. 

"The only ones who don't dress for the occasion is either old to the game," he continued and pointed at a man in his 50's dressed in a shirt and pants like me. "Like that guy, or new to the game. Judging from your looks, you don't look like you're much over 20." 

"I could just not care," I replied. I didn't believe it was that simple. What you wore didn't necessarily mean you've done something before or not. 

"Oh, but this is the BRIT Awards, you do care what you look like. Most people will after their first time," he flashed a smile showing off his white teeth and huge dimples. "I know I did." 

"You don't look very old either," I responded, "how many times have you done this, uh?" I hesitated because I didn't know his name.

"Ashton," he answered immediately, "this is my third time. And you are?" 

"Luke," I said casually, not even bothering to shake his hand. He didn't make any effort either, which was fine with me. 

"You know it's not too late to rent a suit," Ashton said as if he worried I'd embarrass myself if I interviewed people in my black and white striped shirt. 

"That's the perks of working for a newspaper, I'm not in front of the camera, so I don't need to look good," I said, brushing off his worries. 

"You still need to make a good impression, so people are willing to be interviewed, "Ashton claimed, and I didn't argue, because it was true. 

"I've done plenty of interviews dressed like this, I doubt this will be different just because it's an award show," I said. Frankly, I didn't care what I looked like, I knew I didn't look too bad and that was good enough for me. If it didn't look like I lived off the streets or spent my money on drugs, it was decent enough. 

"But were any of them celebrities?" Ashton asked me, still thinking he was right. Maybe he was, after all, he was the one out of us who had experience. 

I was going to reply that most of the people I interviewed were individuals who fell victim for an accident or crime, if not the people who knew the victim. That most of the time I interviewed the police, doctors, patients and the ones who knew the persons who died or got hurt. However, I kept my mouth shut. By saying something like that, it would bring down the mood, and I didn't want to do that. "Social status shouldn't affect the way you dress," I replied instead. "My job is to write about people, not impress them. I will wear the same clothes when I interview homeless people as when I interview working class people. Celebrities are no different." 

"Fair point," Ashton agreed, "but there's a reason why everyone is dressed for the event. There is a reason why even the people behind the camera is wearing a suit." 

"Because they want to impress the ones in front of the camera," I said. However, I had no interest in impressing Dua Lipa or whoever. Mostly because I knew that I'd just be one journalist among thousands. I'd never stick out, and much less befriend any of the famous people here. '

"And you don't?" 

"They'll never see me again, anyway. What's the point?" 

"I don't know," Ashton said, and you could visibly see him thinking for some sort of meaning. "To brag maybe? People are like that, they want the five seconds of fame if they can show off the fact that they talked to Adele." 

"Well, I'm not the type to brag," I stated. I'd never been the type to boost my own ego with stupid words, and probably never would be. 

"Of course, you're not, prize-winner," Ashton muttered. My eyes widened when Ashton called me that. It meant that he knew that I was Luke Hemmings the award-winning journalist. Not that I minded, because it was the truth. But being an award-winning journalist wasn't a part of my identity. Being a journalist was very much a part of who I am, but the awards weren't. 

"When did you realise?" I asked. I didn't mind being recognized, but I did mind when people hold it against me. 

"As soon as you presented yourself," Ashton replied casually. "Tell me, Hemmings, are you looking for an award on this article as well?" He taunted me, and I gritted my teeth in aggravation. 

"Don't be stupid," I uttered. "Awards says nothing about your talent. You can go an entire life without an award but be the best of the best. Or you can win a hundred awards and write slightly above average."

"Are you slightly above average, Luke?" the honey-brunet asked, still mocking me. 

"I guess that's for you to decide," I said, not wanting to have this discussion. My phone made a sound signalising I'd received a message, and I quickly checked it to see if it was Steve who'd messaged me. It was. He told me that he was waiting for me near the exit. 

"I need to go," I told Ashton, feeling bad I had to leave the brunet, even though I barely knew him. 

"I hope you enjoy the BRIT Awards," he said sincerely and smirked at me. However, the smirk was more playful than his statement. It was something in his smirk that I couldn't interpret, but the smirk showed that he challenged me, somehow. 

"Oh, I am, now that I met you," I said, and winking at him. Making it obvious I was flirting before I left the scene, to find the photographer I'd been waiting for, for 20 minutes. It didn't take long before I found Steve, and as soon as I spotted him we started to talk about work-related stuff. 

"I'm sorry for being late," Steve apologized, "got stuck in the traffic," he continued with his thick Irish accent. 

"No worries," I said, "I managed to keep myself occupied." My mind automatically wandered back to Ashton, and I wondered if I'd see him again or not. Soon the doors opened, and I didn't have much time to think about the brunet man. Instead. I only focused on doing my work.


	2. The Aftermath

Post-BRIT Awards  
A lot of things happened during the BRIT Awards, some you may already know. Some you don't. However, even though a lot of things happened during this event, I find it unnecessary to re-tell the story. Mostly because it's not related to The Clerkenwell killer case.

It would be a waste of time to write about the award show, when, only a handful would be interested in the details. I did do an interview with Foo Fighters after they won the award for best band, but I'm not going to re-write that either. If you're interested, you can read the feature I did here: Someone getting the best.

I've decided to write about only the stuff that matters, and the events after the award show matters. My plans after the event consisted of going home, find a bottle of red wine and pour myself a glass before I wrote the feature. Hopefully, it wouldn't take a long time, and Brian could print it in tomorrow's newspaper, alongside with Steve's brilliant pictures. However, fate had different plans for me.

Once again, I found myself in the bar, once again waiting. But this time I wasn't waiting for Steve or any photographer, I was waiting for my taxi. I wouldn't ask Michael to drive for an hour to pick me up just, so I could save money. I wasn't broke, just lazy. I could just use the subway, but I liked the privacy a taxi gave me. Surely, there were other places for me to wait than the bar, but the bar gave me a comforting feeling, and I'd rather not wait outside. Who knew how long it would take until the taxi arrived?

Whether the taxi arrived shortly or not, was not the biggest the problem. The problem was that I'd probably catch a cold before it came if I stayed outside that is, worst case scenario I would spend my only free day with a fever. I'd rather not risk the chance, so I stayed inside. My taxi driver had just told he'd get there as fast as he could, and I hung up not saying anything else. – Because I didn't need to. – My eyes looked away from my phone, and once again I was met by hazel eyes. Ashton stood right in front of me.

The scene was so similar to our meeting only hours ago, and hadn't it been so recent I'd probably wonder if this was Déjà vu or not. This time Ashton took a seat next to me without talking, I doubted that he'd order anything because if he was like me he had an article to write. Somehow, I could tell he was a journalist and not working for any television station.

"So, are you here alone?" I asked, not sure if I joked or did a cringey attempt on flirting. Luckily, for me, Ashton just laughed at me. As if it was the best joke ever told. It wasn't.

"I am, what are you gonna do about that?" Ashton asked, again with that damn smirk he'd showed me when I'd left after our first meeting. It was still just as playful, with some sort of challenge to it. What did he challenge me to do? I didn't know, and that was part of the game. He wouldn't tell me, I had to figure it out myself. That was part of the game. The second part was the challenge, whatever it was.

"Maybe I'll get you drunk." I said a motioned to the bar but made no move to order anything.

"Would you really do something like that, Hemmings? You know I got work tomorrow, and a paper to write." There it was again. The smirk. I was positive that this was what Ashton wanted – somehow. Maybe not getting drunk, but I was taking the conversation in the right direction.

"So do I, but if it makes your smile more visible, it'll be worth the hangover," I grinned at him, not sure why I kept talking to him in this way. Why would I continue talking to him in the first place, when my taxi was right around the corner? (More or less.)

Why would I flirt with him? I didn't know him. Yes, he looked good, but it didn't matter – I had work to do, and nothing was prioritized over work. However, even my future feature didn't stop me from grinning like a lovesick fool at the gorgeous male in front of me.

"Don't say stuff like that, I might take you up on that offer," he joked.

"That was the point," I told him, and the truthfulness in my voice surprised me. Did I really want this? I thought I wanted to go home and have a good night sleep after writing the feature, not sex. But maybe I was wrong?

"I would end up falling for you," he said, still with a fooling expression on his face.

"I hope you do," was what I replied. Already looking at drinks I could order. Was I actually planning on spending my paycheck on a guy I didn't even know, just to get so drunk that we'd might end up spending the night together? It seemed like it because I motioned the bartender to come closer before I ordered. The last thing I did was cancel my taxi before I started to drink the expensive alcoholic beverage.

I continued with my poor flirting, and it got worse the more alcohol I got into my system. Luckily, for my wallet, soon Ashton joined me on ordering drinks. And luckily, for my self-esteem, Ashton didn't seem to mind my poor flirting skills, but rather enjoy it. I could feel reason slip away, my work, the feature, wasn't important right now, I could write it tomorrow.

I knew that I'd had to get done before the deadline if I wanted it to come in the paper edition, but I didn't care. Right now, the most important thing was Ashton who sat in front of me. And his sinful lips I so badly wanted to kiss.

Room 327  
Brian won't like to read, that I was absolutely shitfaced that night. I wasn't drunk, I was wasted. I mean, it's the truth, and I doubt he'll do anything seeing as it's almost six months ago, but I doubt he'll be happy. Especially since I told him that I was occupied, and that's the reason why I couldn't finish the story on time, when the truth is I was busy with fucking the brains out of Ashton Irwin.

I've already established that I was drunk that night, and I know this very well. Not because of the hangover I had the day after, or the massive blackouts of the night. I know it because I chose to book a hotel room. Drunk me loved spending money I didn't have. The price for a room for one night wasn't too bad, but I'd save a lot more for taking a taxi back to my place. I didn't know exactly why I decided booking a hotel room would be a good idea, but when the thought occurred to me I was busy kissing down Ashton's neck, and the ride back to my place somehow seemed too long.

The O2 was a much closer, preferable option. Taking a taxi to the hotel didn't even take 7 minutes, before the taxi driver let us off, with a smirk plastered on his face. Pulling two and two together, he knew exactly why Ashton and I were here. If I'd been sober I probably would've blushed, but I was too drunk to care. The only thought that reined through my mind was Ashton.

[](https://ibb.co/KNMjPB0)

Ashton and I stayed the night at the InterContiental London - The O2.

My lips were pressed against his lips for a chaste kiss before I grabbed his hand and we made our way to the front desk. He didn't seem to mind and followed right behind me. Probably just as horny as me. The lady at the front desk didn't care about our drunkenness or the fact that I couldn't stay more than a few meters away from Ashton before I needed to get close to him again. She'd probably seen it before, and that's possibly the reason why she was able to smile at us and wish us a good stay, before handing me the key card to our room.

I think she explained that the room was on the second floor, but I was too far gone to notice or take it in, so I checked the number on the key card, 327, while pressing the number of our floor in the lift. Before my lips once again connected to Ashton's. The kiss was too consuming, and the ride too short, and I didn't want to part just so we could get to the room, but even drunk I knew that I had to. Even though it was a pain.

We found the room quickly and was inside before my mind registered it. As soon as the door was closed, I'd pushed Ashton against it, and my lips found its way back to his neck. Before returning to his lips. I couldn't keep my hands off him, and his hands were all over me as well. Variating from around my neck to my hair, or the rest of my body.

Eagerly, my fingers started to button up his shirt, while I tried my best not to end the kiss. It was complicated, especially drunk, but I somehow managed, and soon the two of us was heading for the bed.

February the 21st I had sex with Ashton Irwin on room 327.

The aftermath  
A groan escaped as I woke up with a headache, in a fluffy bed, bigger than my own. There was a person lying next to me, and my arm was lazily thrown around the brunet. I couldn't see his head, but his brown curls were enough for this very moment. I was naked, and it wasn't hard to understand that I had slept with this person.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I blinked before I realised that someone was calling me. I sat up before I took my phone and looked at the ID, it was Brian and I cursed. The article. I hadn't even started on it, and the flow I had yesterday was gone. My finger clicked on the green button before I answered, careful not to wake up the sleeping male.

"Hey Brian," I said, trying my best to not sound like a hungover idiot.

"Hemmings, I was expecting an interview from you," he sounded cheerful, though that was far from the truth. "Yesterday."

I gulped, "I got, uh, occupied," I told him, finding it better to say than that I didn't finish because I was drunk and had sex. "I'll finish it before," I checked the clock, it was a few minutes over eight, "eleven, it'll be on your desk by twelve, and published on our website," I promised.

"Ok, fine," Brian said, he didn't sound too happy, but he had no other choice. He couldn't make me demand it being out, because yesterday was in the past. "It better be good," he finished.

"Oh, it will," I said confidently before the conversation ended, and I was back to the hotel room. My memories had returned to me, and most of the night was clear to me, I had no black out's, though some details were unclear. However, the most important events were still fresh. I looked over at Ashton, and to my surprise he was awake.

"Good morning," I said because I didn't know what else to say.

"Was he angry?" he asked, turning to me, but the honey-brunet made no motion to get up.

"Just grumpy," I replied, "he's like that before he drinks coffee." Ashton smiled, and I guessed he was too tired to laugh. I got up, and I could feel Ashton's eyes on my naked body, but it could've just been my imagination.

"Where are you going?" Ashton asked, and I looked at him and shot a smile his way.

"I'm taking a shower, I'm not leaving yet," I said, and I could see him visibly relax. I wondered if he was worried I'd leave, or if he was just falling back asleep. I looked around the room and found my clothes all over the place. I picked them up before I walked into the bathroom. I would've asked Ashton to join me if it didn't feel out of place. We'd just had sex and shared a bed together, naked. Yet it felt weird for me to ask him to join me in the shower now that I was sober.

If Ashton had joined me, I wouldn't have minded but he didn't, and I dried myself quickly after an even quicker shower. I wasn't dirty anyway, I just wanted to wash off the sweat and smell of sex. Fully dressed I came back to the room, finding Ashton who was typing fast on his computer. Probably working on his article. I tried not to stare at him, as I wondered how I ended up having sex with him. I felt like he was out of my league, the male seemed like a catch and I wondered if I'd continue to see him after this. Or if this was just a one-night stand. I hoped it wasn't.

Ashton seemed like the guy who got hit up a lot, and I wondered why he decided to take me up on my offer. Surely, more well-dressed, more intelligent, richer, more good-looking men had flirted with him before. So why me? Why would he want to sleep with me out of all the people in London? I was nothing special, but the boy on the bed typing on his computer was.

To avoid looking like a fool, or a creep, I moved to the side of the bed I'd slept and found my messenger bag. I rarely went any place without it and got my laptop. I sat next to Ashton on the bed before I started typing on the feature. For a while the two of us just sat there, saying nothing and doing nothing but writing on each or paper. It was calming in a way that I didn't need to talk or entertain him. That I could solely focus my work without feeling bad.

I've tried dating before, but it never worked out. Because as a journalist I was always busy and always had a text to finish, not everyone realised that and got annoyed when I always told people I had to work.

Not that Ashton and I were dating, not at all. But usually, I'd tried to separate work and private life, because my love interests didn't care about my work, or just hated the fact that I had work to do. And that I prioritized to get it done, rather spend time with them. Ashton, however, didn't seem to mind. Maybe because he was a journalist himself, or maybe because the people I'd met before Ashton was shit.

"So, who did you interview?" Ashton asked I didn't know how long we've been silent, maybe for an hour, maybe two. It could've been ten minutes – I didn't know.

"I did an interview with Foo Fighters since they won best band," I replied and scanned my feature. My eyes narrowed, there was something about it that made it imperfect, it didn't quite catch the essence of the award show. Something was missing.

"Seriously? I love them! How did you manage to get an interview?" Ashton asked, facing me, and looked pretty surprised. Especially since it had been my first time. Beginners usually interviewed the audience and the host, maybe some unknown artists.

"It was my clothes," I joked, and he looked at me with disbelief. As if my boring clothes was the key to an interview with the best band of 2018. "I don't know, to be honest. Dave Grohl said I could. Like there was plenty of people asking to interview them, I included. And he was all like: yeah, we can't do everyone, let's start with you, and pointed on me. I was just lucky."

"Could I steal a quote from you, I'll, of course, say I got it from you," Ashton asked, "if you don't want to, I can understand that," he hurriedly continued. As if he was scared I'd think he only slept with me to get this quote. I didn't think that.

"What paper are you from?" I asked it wasn't a test. It wasn't that type of question where I had to approve of the paper before I'd give him a quote. I was just genuinely curious.

"Daily Mail," he answered quickly. By the tone in his voice, I could tell that he liked his job, and he liked his workplace.

"Ah! C'mon," I groaned. Out of all newspapers it had to that one? The times were a big newspaper, but Daily Mail was the second biggest newspaper in Britain. I who was working for The Times, of course, had something against other news bureaus, they were rivals. Which is why it took me almost a year to befriend Calum, Michael's boyfriend.

"Were you hoping I was working for The Times?" Ashton teased.

"I knew you weren't, I'd noticed you a long time ago." I cringed at my poor attempts of flirting and thanked the gods that Ashton happened to find it charming. The thought of how I'd been able to sleep with this guy crossed my mind once again. He was definitely out my league, yet here he was blushing at my cheap flirting. Maybe God just decided it was time I got something too? "But I don't mind, you can get a quote from me," I continued, "take your pick." I slid a paper to Ashton were the most important quotes stood, and I couldn't look away from his intense stare.

Even though he was watching the paper and not me.

"Did you interview anyone from the audience?" I asked, regretting that I hadn't done it myself. I figured that was maybe the thing I was missing for my feature, a quote from the audience.

"I did, actually." He replied as he started typing on his computer once again. He'd probably already picked his quote and wrote that he got the passage from me. "You need a line?"

I grinned sheepishly before I nodded. "I do."

"Here." Ashton passed me his phone and on a document was several quotes, but I chose one from Laura (18). It described the essence of the award show, the aura, and it fit right into my feature. I thanked Ashton before I quickly wrote that it was retrieved from the Daily Mail.

My eyes found the clock, and I was surprised to see that it was barely ten. 10:05. That meant I had almost an hour to finish the feature, but I didn't need those 55 minutes. All I needed was Steve's pictures, and it'd be ready for publishing. I smirked to myself, pleased to have finished so early. However, the satisfaction didn't last long enough. Because Steve hadn't sent me his pictures, and I couldn't publish my article without them.

That's why I preferred taking the pictures myself because I wasn't depended on anyone else, but myself.

I sent the man a message but doubted the man would answer right away. He was that type of guy that preferred to stay away from his phone, and rather read. It was a rare sight these days, to see someone hate their phones as much as Steve, but it was also kind of funny. Steve was that kind of man that would always have a book on him, but rarely his phone. Mostly because he claimed that phones were brain damaging, and he was probably right.

For some time, I just waited for a reply, but I quickly discovered there was no point in waiting. Steve would probably not reply for a long time, and I'd get the pictures much faster if I just traveled to the main office to get the pictures. So, I ordered a taxi to the hotel, getting ready to leave.

While I looked around the hotel room to see if any of my things were lying around, I closed the laptop and started packing my things. If I could've decided I'd stay here longer, but I had promised Brian I'd finish the feature before eleven. And I could put Ashton in front of work, again.

The said honey-brunet looked at me when he saw that I was ready to leave and got up from the bed and walked towards me. I couldn't help but admire even the way he walked, and I felt that I was too far gone for this guy. I shouldn't be this whipped for a guy I just met. But Ashton had that effect on people.

"Are you planning on leaving without giving me your number?" Ashton asked, with a playful smirk evident on his face.

"Of course not," I replied in the same tone, and handed him my phone so he could give me his number. When he returned the phone, I sent him a message, so he'd have my number. Ashton stood so close you call it invading your private space, but I liked having him this close. Especially with kind of atmosphere surrounding us.

"Call me," Ashton said, "don't be a stranger." And it was something with those words that sounded so genuine. Like he really wanted me to call him, and I really wanted to call him. So, I didn't mind being on the same page as him.

"I won't," I promised, and to seal the deal I pulled the man impossible closer and pressed my lips against his. The kiss wasn't like any of those we'd shared the previous night, it was purer, but I still enjoyed. Probably a little too much. If Ashton had asked me to, I'd probably cancel my taxi once again just to stay by his side. However, he didn't ask me to, probably because his mind was clouded while I made a new love bite on his neck. Making sure he couldn't cover it up, so everyone could see that I had claimed Ashton as mine. – Even though he wasn't, and it was just a wish that I still hadn't realised I had.


	3. An attempted murder

Finishing the feature  
The taxi was already waiting for me when I finally left the hotel with swollen lips and one or two fresh hickeys. I didn't mind though, every second I spent with Ashton was worth it. I realised as much, even though we'd only met one night prior. We were basically strangers, yet it didn't feel like it. We were close. Somehow. I didn't know how, or why, but I felt like Ashton and I had a special connection. 

Maybe that's the reason why I couldn't stay away from him? 

I didn't mind having to pay extra for making the taxi wait. Not if that meant I had the time to make another visible mark on Ashton's neck to let others know I marked a territory that wasn't really mine to claim. However, others didn't know Ashton wasn't mine to claim. What they saw was that Ashton was off-limits until the hickeys disappeared. And hopefully, by the time the love-bites had faded away, I'd already made some new ones. If everything went according to plan, this wouldn't be the only time Ashton's neck was covered with hickeys. I didn't know if I was planning on making Ashton my new love interest, all that I knew was that I was planning on seeing him again. 

The taxi ride was surprisingly short, I was lucky and escaped the morning rush. besides my mind was elsewhere and most of the ride went unnoticed. I'd be lying if I said I was thinking of something else than Ashton, the male occupied my mind. Ashton was just too distracting, so I spent the entire day thinking of him. Even though I didn't know his age or last name.  
The cab driver stopped outside The Times' main office and looked at me before he said my total. I paid in cash before he handed me the receipt. My hand stuffed it into my pocket of my grey wool coat and exited the taxi. 

"Have a great day," he said, and I smiled at the male. Though he didn't see it, because he was in front of me. 

"You too," I said, and slammed the door shut. The yellow cab then drove off. And I entered the main office. I wasted no time to do other things than my reason to be here. I didn't waste time waiting for the elevator or chat with the receptionist, so I immediately started to climb the stars. I'm not the most psychical active person, I must admit, however, I was surprised at how fast I made it to the third floor.

My breath was uneven, but it didn't mean too much. I had one mission and that was getting the pictures from Steve. Because after the article was done, I could go home. After this article was finished I had the day off. Sure, I had work tomorrow, but I appreciated the time off that I had. Who didn't? 

"Steve," I called out as I approached the man, he was rapidly typing on his computer, but he stopped and turned his attention to me.

"Luke," he replied as he eyed me, "thought you had the day off." 

"I do, when I finish last night's feature, I just need the pictures," I explained. "You'd know if you checked you phone more often," I said, not in a rude way, but more in a teasing way. 

"I thought you'd finish it last night, so I sat up last night waiting for you to ask for the pictures," he said, "you always finish early. What happened?" 

I tried to hide the shit-eating grin that was evident on my face. Luckily, it went unnoticed, because if not it'd be clear that I got laid last night. Not that I minded telling people about it, but it wasn't very professional. I'd rather not have the entire workplace know that I had sex yesterday, not to add – I didn't work because I had sex. Brian wouldn't like to hear it. He was already a little aggravated that I turned the feature in late. Knowing it was because I got laid would only make matters worse. I doubt I'd get fired, but it just wasn't the way for journalists to work. 

"I got occupied," I said, avoiding his eyes, and I was lucky he didn't press the subject any further. 

"I'll email them to you right away, are you done with the feature, or do you need some minutes to finish up?" he asked, and I only chuckled. I wouldn't show up unless I was done. I told Steve as much and he murmured some that sounded a lot like "didn't expect anything less from you."

My phone made the recognizable sound to tell me I had a notification, and I it was the pictures from Steve. I thanked the man before I walked over to my desk. It didn't take me more than a minute before I had added the pictures to my feature and re-read it to check for spelling mistakes. When I was done, I published it on our website, as well as I sent a copy to Brian. 

With that my day at the office was over. The clock was around 10:55, and I had the entire day in front of me. Though I'd probably spend it doing absolutely nothing. 

Ashton Irwin  
I walked out of the office pretty pleased with myself. I didn't know if it was the after effects of the sex or if it was because I finished early. Probably a mixture of both. My phone made the familiar message sound, and I was quick to check it. I expected the message was from Brian, but I secretly hoped it was from Ashton. But it was from neither. It was from my best friend, Michael.

Michael:  
Hey, you're off today, right? 

Luke:  
Yeah, I am, why? 

Michael:  
Come to the café, Calum's here with me 

Luke:  
Why would I want to go to the café? 

Michael:  
Because we're your best friends, and you're gonna tell us about the brit awards 

Michael:  
And I let you drink coffee for free 

Luke:  
Fine, I'll swing by 

Michael was a part-time barista at a local café. Which had its perks, for example, I got a good discount and coffee for free. It was probably for the better because I spent too much money on coffee, I had a coffee addiction. And I hadn't had coffee this morning, so I didn't mind swinging by. Especially since I had no other plans. 

When Michael wasn't a barista at the local café named The Coffee bean, he was working for BBC, on the radio. Michael loved both jobs, but we all knew he favoured the radio. Calum and he was a journalist couple, no doubt about that. Not too surprising, since they'd met at the university.   
It didn't take me long time to reach the café, it was in walking distance from the main office, and that's probably why I spent so much time there. 

Because of the discount I got and the fact that it was close to my work. I could stop by to work, and from work. Or whenever I had time for lunch. I walked into the café and discovered it was completely empty, besides Michael behind the counter, and Calum. Who sat in front of the counter on a barstool. The café looked like your typical coffee shop, and that's probably the reason why it attracted so many hipsters. 

However, the busiest hours were lunchtime and around four o'clock, when school's closed, and people finished work.  
Right now, it was empty. But it'd be filled when lunchtime arrived. 

[](https://ibb.co/BCyBY1t)

Calum Hood (23) is one of my dear friends and dating Michael Clifford. The two of them will have an essential part in this story.

"Hey man," Michael greeted before he studied me. "Are you wearing the clothes you wore yesterday?" 

I was going to snap at him to tell him that of course, I was wearing the clothes from yesterday, I hadn't had the chance to go home to change yet, but I held my tongue. If I said that, there would be too many questions. Like why I hadn't been home, what I was doing and who I was doing. 

"Yeah," I answered, "I mean I don't have work today, I was just getting the pictures from Steve at the main office, I was heading home," I told them, without lying or including the fact that I spent the entire night at a hotel. 

"You see Cal," Michael turned to his boyfriend, "I told you his clothes were horrible." 

Calum looked at me and studied my attire, "it's not too bad." 

"For the BRIT Awards?" Michael said, and raised his eyebrow looking disproving at both me and Calum. 

"I mean, I'd probably wear a suit, but he doesn't look worse than you in the mornings," Calum chuckled at the end of the sentence, and I joined him. Michael, on the other hand, didn't laugh. Instead, he hit Calum as revenge for insulting him, before he started working on a coffee for me. I hadn't asked for it, but Michael knew exactly what I wanted. There was no need to ask for a coffee, Michael knew me too well. 

"That's domestic violence," Calum joked, and Michael only scoffed. It didn't take a minute before he slid the coffee to me, and walked away from the counter, and took a seat by Calum.

"So, tell us about the awards," the blond male asked. "Did anyone comment your clothes?" Michael continued, with an eyebrow raised. He laid his head on Calum's shoulder, and I still found them disgusting sometimes. Especially when Calum wrapped his arm around Michael. I should be used to it after them dating for almost four years, but I wasn't.

Maybe because I was still immature, or maybe because I wasn't in a relationship myself. Or it could be the fact that Michael was my best friend.

"Yeah, but it didn't stop me from getting laid," I replied, smirking. A way of saying take that, or disproving Michael. "And I'm telling you, he was fine."

"Was he a journalist covering the BRIT Awards too?" Michael asked. Sometimes Michael could be pretty logic, after all, there had almost been journalists at the event. And the few that wasn't was unlikely that I'd interacted with.

"Yeah, a journalist from The Daily Mail," I said, taking a sip from the coffee Michael had handed me earlier.

"The Daily Mail?" Calum's head perked up, finally focusing on our conversation. Calum worked for The Daily Mail, and it was only natural that he cared about his workplace. I remember the two of us used to be rivals because we worked for different bureaus, however, we were over it now. "What's his name?" the raven-haired boy asked.

"Ashton," I said, and my thoughts automatically wandered to Ashton. Would I see him again? I hoped so.

"Wait, Ashton? As in the grumpy guy? He is excellent in what he does, and everyone adores him, until you wrong him and then he is a total beast."

"What did you do?" Michael asked, knowing his boyfriend too well.

"I spilt coffee all over his shirt, like once, and now he looks at me like I killed his mom," Calum said, and I couldn't help but scoff, Calum was too clumsy sometimes. I can't count the times he fell down the stairs at his apartment complex. "But is it that Ashton?"

"How should I know? I don't know your colleagues," I shot back. Calum was usually bright, but he had his stupid moments. (He had a lot of them.)

"Is this him?" Calum asked showing a picture of a Facebook profile, Ashton Irwin. The profile picture was a picture of the same male I'd met at the BRIT Awards. The same man I'd slept with. The same man I'd given hickeys just some hours earlier.

"Yeah, it's him," I confirmed.

"Holy shit! You had sex with Ashton," Calum exclaimed, and I didn't understand how it was a big deal. People had sex, life goes on. "Every woman and gay man in our office has hit him up at least once, and he always declines them. Like, have you seen Veronica! I'd bang her if I didn't have a boyfriend," Calum continued. Michael didn't like his last sentence and sent him an ugly glare.

However, Calum luckily was quick to fix his mistake. "Michael you know you're the only one who has my heart. No one could change that, no one." That's how they ended up kissing for the next minute, and I felt like I was third-wheeling. Even though Calum and Michael were my best friends, sometimes I felt like I was third-wheeling, when I was around them.

"I wonder how Ashton flirts," Calum wondered out loud, and I stopped myself from saying it was fucking hot, so I wouldn't sound like a whipped fool. (Though I probably was.) "Is he a top or bottom?" Calum continued, genuinely curious.

The question caught me off guard as I was mid take a sip from the coffee, but I ended up choking on it. I coughed for nearly a minute before I looked Calum, who still waited for an answer. "He uh, he bottomed," I said, feeling uncomfortable discussing my sex life.

"Seriously? He doesn't seem like a bottom, but then again, so doesn't you."

An attempted murder  
I didn't speak to Ashton again before March the seventh. Two weeks after the BRIT Awards. Now, I could go on about a lot of things. I could tell about the two weeks or the day after I published the feature. Two days after the BRIT Awards, when Calum called me just to laugh at me when he saw Ashton's neck attacked with love-bites. 

I could go on about that time I spent the entire hour with the phone in my hand trying to figure out if I should call Ashton or not, but I won't. I won't because it's unnecessary for the story. I didn't call Ashton for two weeks, and he didn't call me. Looking back, I realise he didn't call because he probably thought I lost interest – just as I thought he did.

I must admit I was pretty busy the first week. Time flew by, and even though the thought of Ashton lingered on in my mind, I never found the right time to call him. And I was scared as well. What was I supposed to say? Would I ask him for a date, or would I ask for another one-night stand? And when a week passed, and I hadn't heard anything from Ashton, I assumed he wouldn't want anything more from me. 

I assumed it was a one-night stand, and that we both would move on. (Though I didn't want to do that.) However, I guess Ashton was just waiting for me to call, but I never did. 

7th of March, I met Ashton again. Once again, while we were both working a case. This time we weren't writing about celebrities or awards, we were writing about some crime. Which was straight up my lane. I'm a criminal journalist, I write about crime and murder, not celebrities and gossip. I was wearing my typical grey wool coat and a shirt. This one was just plain black, together with black jeans. I can't remember a day where I didn't work in jeans and a shirt. It was my typical work clothes, it was formal yet casual. Though Michael disliked my clothes, for some odd reason. 

This time it hadn't been any murder or such, but there had been an attempted murder, knife-stabbing or whatever you want to call it. After the morning meeting, I'd rushed to the hospital trying to beat the traffic and the endless stream of journalists that would cover the case. I was just lucky I had a friend in the police enforcement that informed me about the event. However, I wasn't quick enough. When I got the hospital to get an interview with the victim – or his family, maybe his doctor. Anything would do. – There was already a big queue of journalists there. 

Among them was Ashton. I didn't notice him at first, because I was too busy arguing with a doctor. 

"If you here to interview the victim, you can forget it," he told him, and I scowled at him. 

"Why not? Are you denying freedom of the press?" I asked, and the man seemed provoked when I said that. I could only guess I wasn't the first person to use the argument. 

"Look here, mate, you can print whatever the fuck you want, but my patient won't be interviewed so his health condition will be worsened. He just survived a very traumatic event," the Doctor told me. 

"Can I quote you on that?" I asked probably to annoy him more. He only scoffed as an answer. "Dr Nielson refused to let the patient, Roger Hackel, be interviewed. Here is what he had to say: you can print whatever you want, but my patient won't be interviewed. Did I get it right? Or was it: you can print whatever the fuck you want?" 

"Please leave the hospital," he asked, and even though it wasn't in a rude tone, I could tell that he was irritated with me. He wished me gone. And gone now. 

"Don't be like that, Mark," someone said, and came to my aid. The voice was slightly familiar and I turned to the voice. To my surprise it was Ashton. Maybe the last person I expected to see here or to help me. Especially since none of us had called the other. 

"Luke here is my ... assistant. He's fresh out of school, and he'll shadow me, to get the hang of the job," Ashton lied, but I was grateful for the lie. "Now c'mon Luke, let's interview Mr Hackel." I followed him like a lost puppy and waited until we were alone. 

"I thought no one got to interview the victim," I said surprised. After all, all the journalists were stuck in the waiting room for a reason. 

"Yeah, they don't unless they have special contacts," Ashton replied easily. 

"How do you know the guy?" I asked Ashton. 

"He's a friend of my mom," Ashton answered, "now Luke, I have a question for you." 

"Shoot," I replied, it was only fair Ashton got to ask a question after I asked him one. Not to mention that Ashton basically saved me from getting thrown out. 

"I was expecting a call from you, why didn't you call?" Ashton smirked at me, but it slowly vanished, "I mean, unless you lost interest. If that's the case that's understandable and I- ..." I didn't let him finish the sentence. If we weren't on a hospital I'd probably cut him off by kissing him, but this time my words had to do. 

"I haven't lost interest," I assured him. "Honestly, I meant to call you, I just ... I didn't find the right time to make the call. Tell you what, I'll treat you lunch later," I promised. 

"You were going to do that anyway since I just saved your arse, but if you insist," Asked teased. We stopped in front of the room where I assumed Roger Hackel was staying at. But I stopped Ashton from going inside just yet. 

"Are you saying I should treat you for dinner too?" I whispered suggestively in his ear, and I could see Ashton visibly tense. He looked at me with his hazel eyes, and I smirked confidently at him. 

"I mean if ... if that's what you want, you can – you can do it. I won't ... mind," I could see how Ashton struggled with his words, and my smirk grew wider. 

"Looks like you're spending the rest of the day with me," I said, as Ashton started to walk inside the room. Before we entered I could hear him mumble something like "I don't mind" but it could've been my imagination.  
As soon as we entered the hospital room we both stepped into a professional role. 

"Good day Mr Hackel, my name is Ashton Irwin and I understand that you've agreed to an interview, I'm working for the Daily Mail," Ashton introduced himself, already making the poor man more at ease. 

"My name is Luke Hemmings, and I'm from The Times, I hope you don't mind doing two interviews at once," I said and smiled to the man. 

Roger Hackel (42) laid in the hospital bed and looked like he hadn't slept for three years straight. His brown hair was turning grey, and I could see some wrinkles in his skin. A sign that he already lived a long life, though he wasn't old. He was dressed in those typical hospital clothes and looked like he was drugged. He probably was on the painkillers and all other medications. Despite the icky situation, the man seemed rather happy, probably because he survived an attempted murder. 

"Do mind if we take this up on audio?" Ashton asked kindly. 

"I don't mind you being two or that you are recording," Roger replied and tried to smile at the end of the sentence but was too tired to actually manage the task. 

"So, do you have any idea, who did this to you'" Ashton asked, and started writing down key-words, I did the same. 

"As I told the police, it was a man, but I didn't get a good look at his face, because suddenly I was stabbed." 

"Do you think you know him from somewhere, or that he thinks you've wronged him somehow?" I asked while writing down his reply. 

"I ... don't know, it didn't seem like anyone I know. Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen his face," he replied and suddenly his breath was shaky. After all, he'd just gone through a very traumatic event. 

"Did he steal anything from you, or want anything?" Ashton asked. 

"No, no he didn't? It's a little odd, isn't it?" His eyes widened, and I felt bad for the man, he looked so scared. He was breathing heavy, and his forehead turned sweaty. Of course, I understood why, but I still pitied the man.

"Mr Hackel, we understand that this is very hard to talk about, so take your time, we'll continue when you're comfortable," I said, and Ashton nodded in agreement. 

"It's fine, I'm just a little shaken up," he said. "That's completely understandable. Can you tell me about your day, what were you doing?" Ashton said, while his kind eyes were directed at the male in the hospital bed. 

"I ... I'd just delivered Molly, my daughter, to school at Hugh Myddelton, and I was walking to work. Like I do most days, and as I was passing through Myddelton street I noticed a man who was following me. It was pretty dark, so I didn't notice him at first, and as I sped up, that's when he ... he stabbed me. After that, it's just a blur. I think I screamed for help, and then I was in an ambulance. And I'm just so thankful that Molly luckily wasn't there," Roger broke down in tears, and we tried our best to comfort him before we continued the interview. We left shortly after, but not before we got a comment from Mark Nielson, the man who threatened to throw me out of the hospital. 

He was Roger Hackel's doctor, and it only seemed natural to interview him, at least to get a statement. Nielson wasn't too willing to talk to me, but he talked to Ashton, and that was good enough for me. 

Ashton and I ended up walking to a café and spent the following hours working on the article, helping each other out. Even though we should be rivals. I bought Ashton lunch on that very café and when the meal was long gone we still sat there to caught up in the conversation. It was only when the waiter came back and asked if we wanted to order something else that I realised how much time we'd spent there. However, it was fine. We were both off work after we turned in the article. 

So, Ashton and I spent the entire afternoon together, until dinnertime arrived, and I took Ashton out on a restaurant to eat. I didn't know I if did it as friends, as colleagues or as lovers. Though I secretly hoped for the latter.


	4. Tête-à-tête

Tête-à-tête  
Once again, I was at that damn room. It felt like I was slowly, but surely, moving from my flat to room 327. And my roommate was none other than Ashton Irwin. My only business here at room 327 was to be with Ashton, and I've spent every weekend with him together with him at room 327 since that day at the hospital.

My feet were slowly dancing a dance with Ashton. Gently swinging to an imaginative rhythm. As I was dragged further and further into this endless spiral. Ashton was like a drug. Once I had a little I couldn't get enough. I always wondered when I'd see him again. I craved his laughter, his smile. I desired his presence and attention. Not having Ashton was fine. But not having Ashton by my side was unbearable. Every Sunday I told myself that this would be the last time I saw Ashton.

The male had too much impact on my life, so I'd had to cut it out. To go back to normal.

Only that I couldn't. I couldn't go back to normal. Every Friday I found myself dialling his number. Like an old alcoholic drawing out once again for the bottle. Like a drug addict once again lighting up a joint. Now that my demons had danced with Ashton's devil, I found it impossible to stay away. I couldn't get enough of him. I knew I shouldn't go back to him if I was smart – but I wasn't.

Cause whenever we parted with a last kiss, I was left wanting more.

I had a rising career, I was young and could really go somewhere with my writing – but I was ready to throw it all away for one honey-haired male whose lips was locked with mine. I leaned against Ashton and hummed in satisfaction, somehow, he made me so at ease. The rain was pouring outside, and even though the hotel room was completely dark, Ashton's eyes shone so brightly. His hazel eyes were this beautiful mixture of brown and green.

That always looked different with different lighting.

Now that we were alone it felt like we were alone in the entire world. There were no other individuals on this planet than Ashton and me. No people existed right now, at least no one that mattered. Maybe room 327 was our planet? I can't count the times I've slept in the fluffy double bed at the O2. Besides Ashton's bed and my own, that's probably where I've spent most of my nights. The two of us was alone, but together. People say that you're never as alone as when you're two, but they're wrong.

I am never as whole as when Ashton is around. Before him, I thought I was, but I'm only half of a whole. Ashton made me realise that. It might be sappy to write.

I may sound like a love-sick fool. That I'm whipped for Ashton, that I'm blinded by love. Maybe I am? However, it is true. Together with Ashton, I feel more complete.

With Ashton, I don't need a crowd. – I had realised as much at the O2 a Friday in late March. I didn't need a crowd, I didn't an audience. I didn't need people at all. His attention was enough. Ashton's attention was worth more than a hundred of people's attention. When Ashton's hazel eyes were studying me, or just gazing ever so slightly at me, I felt at ease. I didn't feel perfect, in fact, I felt imperfect compared to Ashton. However, Ashton made me feel like my flaws were the most gorgeous part about me.

Ashton had that effect on people, or maybe it was only on me?

Maybe I was a love-sick fool? Maybe I am a love-sick fool? Maybe Ashton was something inhuman that had trapped me in some sort of spell? It didn't Matter much, I'd gladly give myself over to him. I know this now, and maybe I've always known it, ever since the BRIT Awards. I don't know when I came to realise, I realised it later. At the O2 I was well aware of the effect Ashton had on me. But not that I was, even back then, willing to give my all to him.

"You know," I said, as my eyes locked with his. His honey coloured curls were slightly in his face, and I brushed them away with no second thought. It was so gentle, and I couldn't help smiling at him. Especially when he smiled back at me. The room was dark, but I still saw his face so clearly. Every feature was visible to me, and I couldn't stop staring. To me, he looked like perfection, and I was physically unable to look away. He looked like a God laying there staring at me with his intense look.

A sweet smile displayed on his feature. Freshly shaved, and slightly sweaty. His skin was clean, and even though we'd just survived a hard winter his skin was tan.

Like Ashton was fresh out of a holiday. I doubted he was and decided that Ashton was probably that kind of guy who was tan 90% of the year.

"As much as I love spending time with you. And spending time with you here at the O2," I continued.

Ashton's content facial expression changed to a worried one. Like he expected me to say that we had to end things between us. As if I ever would be able to stay away from Ashton. I wanted to apologize for ever making him worry that I'd lost interest, but I didn't mention it. Instead, I continued my monologue to get to my point.

"Because I do love it. I do love spending the weekends at a luxury hotel with you, but it's starting to take its toll. I don't think I can keep this up much longer, economically. The hotel stays are eating up my salary. Could we rather spend the nights at my place or yours?"

Ashton's worried face disappeared like had never been there, and the satisfied smile was back. Showing off his dimples. "Thank God, you brought it up. Because I didn't know how to," Ashton said and sounded honestly relieved. I only chuckled, and drifted slowly to sleep, at ease now that Ashton was once again by my side. I'd been longing for his presence ever since it disappeared last Sunday.

Pardon my French  
The next time I saw Ashton I had him pressed against his own front door. Usually, I spent the entire week working and daydreaming about seeing Ashton again. This week I hadn't even been able to make it to the weekend before the urge to see Ashton had been to grave and I had called him up. Or rather he was the one who called me up, but I would've called him up only minutes later if he hadn't.

My lips parted from Ashton's only because the need for oxygen became impossible to ignore. For a moment I cursed humans ever having lungs before I smiled at such ridiculous thought.

"I could spend all day kissing you Luke, but the food is getting cold," Ashton said and pushed past me leading the way to the kitchen.

"Wait, you're making dinner?" I asked surprised, I had expected takeaway or anything close to it.

"Of course, I did invite you over for dinner? Didn't I?" Ashton said. His face turned into a devious smile, "or perhaps you already forgot? Too occupied thinking of ... something else?" At the end of the sentence, he was in my arms again, but I didn't mind. At all.

I leaned down to kiss him, and he met me half-way. However, when I went to deepen the kiss he pulled away and disappeared out of my arms as quickly as he had appeared.

"Oh, you're a real tease," I complained and felt deceived for a split second. But I wasn't really offended by the lack of contact. I just felt the need to hold him, and my urge was not satisfied when he left my grasp. Though I shouldn't really complain, I still had his company, and another more natural urge was soon to be satisfied. Hunger.

We entered the kitchen, and I realised how fancy Ashton lived. I hadn't noticed before because my mind was, and still was, too occupied with Ashton. Entering the kitchen was a change in scenery, and it made me realise how expensive his apartment had to be. With our salary it was affordable, I just assumed Ashton earned close to what I did.

It was affordable, but I suspected that his apartment was more expensive than mine.

For one, was his flat bigger. But it just seemed more expensive than mine. It could be the furniture. His apartment had a mix between a modern, classy vibe and a homey vibe. Kind of like Ashton himself. On the outside, he looked like some high-class journalist, but once that I got to know him, I realised he was more down to earth and was very home-loving.

"It smells good," I complimented when the smell of food finally hit my nostrils. Because it did smell good. Now, Ashton wasn't a chef, but he would be a damn fine one if he was. When I smelled Ashton's cooking for the first time, in his very own apartment, I could've mistaken it for something they serve at a high-class restaurant.

Ashton was a mix between classy and homey. He could cook meals they'd serve at Ramsey's restaurants. Yet I got to learn later that Ashton only cooked at home for people he cherished. Me being lucky enough to be one of these persons.

"Thanks, I hope you like chicken, cause we'll be having coq au vin," Ashton with a perfect French accent.

"You speak French?" I asked curiously.

"Only a little," Ashton began, before he found a bottle of red wine, Red Burgund Ashton told me later. Usually, the wine is served with coq au vin, because the wine goes great together with the rooster meat. Ashton had, however, decided to replace the rooster with chicken, because chicken meat was easier to find in stores.

"My stepdad is French, and he taught me the language when I was little. We used to spend the vacations in Nice with his family," Ashton told me and handed me a glass of red wine. I gratefully accepted it and took a sip allowing him to continue.

"I remember one time I snuck out to attend this stupid party, and he caught me vomiting my guts out in my mom's rose bushes. He was so mad he started yelling at French to me. The worst part was that I understood it, so my drunken-self thought it was a good idea to reply to him in French. I think he was impressed and amused, so he let me go. Until I was sober that is." Ashton ended the story by laughing of his own foolishness and I couldn't help but join in.

[](https://ibb.co/mFgb1YM)

Ashton F. Irwin (25) pretends to know very little French when he, in fact, is fluent.

"Tsk, and here you are saying you only speak a little French, when you're probably fluent," I muttered. Ashton's face broke up in a smile before a small chuckle left his lips.

"No, I'm serious, I'm not fluent. I know enough to get by, but I haven't practised the language ever since I moved out," Ashton said, and I playfully rolled my eyes. Ashton was acting humble, I knew that if he ever went to France, he wouldn't have any problem speaking to the locals, and would probably not feel the need to speak to people in English.

Morning routines  
I woke up to my alarm clock going off, and as I reached for my phone, I realised I wasn't at home. One quick look at Ashton brought it all back and a smile made its way onto my features. My mind wandered off to somewhere, probably because I was looking at Ashton, and I forgot the existence of my alarm clock until Ashton reminded me.

"Would you mind turning the damn thing off?" I heard him mutter with a husky morning voice.

"Sorry," I said and moved my arm from Ashton to take my phone and turn my alarm off. "Hey Ashton, it's time to get up," I said and tried to shake him softly. However, I didn't get any response. We were both aware that he was awake, yet he pretended to be asleep. "Ashton, we have to go to work."

"Actually, I have the day off today," Ashton said, and his grip around me tightened. Making it impossible for me to come loose. "Let's go back to sleep."

"Well, I don't. I have to go to work," I said and tried to twist myself out of his surprisingly strong grip, without much luck.

"Five minutes," Ashton pleaded, and I was ready to decline his request. Sure, his request was very tempting, but I had to get to work. Cuddling with Ashton beat working any day, but that didn't mean I could allow myself to choose it over my responsibilities.

"No, Ashton," I began, but he didn't let me finish. He rolled on top me, making it not impossible – but very difficult – to get out of the bed. "What do you want?" I asked, though it was more of a groan.

"I want to cuddle," he mumbled. His lips so close to my ear that shivers moved down my spine. It took all my power to decline his request, but I knew my responsibility. I had to get to work.

"Ashton please, I need to go to work. I-..." He never let me finish that sentence, cutting me off with a kiss. I can admit I'm whipped for Ashton, and I was at that time too. He had me wrapped around his finger, and it didn't take long before I gave in to his request. Kissing him back like I didn't have a work I admit it's very stupid, but people rarely know me for my intelligence.

My lips kissed the nape of his neck before I kissed his neck. Why was Ashton so thrilling? Why did he always leave me wanting more? I never understood the power he had over me. Ashton could say the word and I would probably do it – even if it was stupid. Like getting late for my work.

My eyes flickered as I looked at my phone – still on. I could only guess the numbers as I saw them unclear – but I knew that if I dwelled any longer, I'd probably end up so late I couldn't even blame the traffic for my delay.

With some superhuman power (that's what it took me to leave Ashton) I rose from the bed. Searching the entire floor for my clothes. Once again, I'd appear in yesterday's clothing, but I didn't really have time to do anything about it. I'd be out interviewing mostly anyway – if it wasn't a dead day. We had those days too, but they mostly happened during the summer. When there was nothing to write about because everyone was on vacation.

As I buttoned my shirt, I caught Ashton looking at me with a not so subtle smirk. "Leaving so soon?" he asked me, a fake pout making its way on his beautiful features.

"We both know I have to. We can only pray I'm not late," I said and leaned down to kiss him quickly. Ashton, the sly bastard, quickly had his hands around my neck deepening the kiss, before he let me go.

"Have a nice at work," he whispered, and I could feel my face heat up ever so slightly. How was I so lucky to meet Ashton? How had I managed to make mine? Well, at least semi-mine. We didn't have a status yet, but I rooted for us getting one.

I grabbed my infamous grey wool coat, on my way out. Hoping if I got into a taxi now, I'd barely make it. One could always hope, right? It would mean I had to skip breakfast, but it was really no bother if it meant five extra minutes with Ashton Irwin. Some people would call me whipped, I know Calum would. My mum would call it true love – though I thought it was too early for such things. All I knew was that I was, undeniable, head over heels for Ashton.


	5. Sex > work

Sex > work  
I barely made it to the morning meeting without being late. Most people were surprised to see me so late to work. Usually, I was the first one to arrive, if not one of the first people. Usually, the only thing stopping me from being early was the traffic. Though no one said anything, I could feel all eyes on me as I sat down in my usual chair Freya (26) had saved for me. The brunette stared wide-eyed at me, as I sat down. I probably looked like a mess – normally, I had everything in place. Today I did not.

I had a bag with a bagel in my hand, a cup lukewarm coffee, and my messenger hung sloppily over my shoulder. My hair was messier than usual because I'd fixed in the taxi, with my front camera as my only mirror. Freya looked at me with a mischievous smile, and I mentally sighed. She probably connected two and two together when she saw I was late and discovered the hickeys on my neck visible for everyone to see. I only dared to meet her burning stare when I had collected all my belongings and pulled out notepad and pen.

"Nice shirt," the brunette whispered to me, and I looked slightly confused. Was that Freya's way of saying "I see you use the shirt you wore yesterday."? My brows furrowed and I looked slightly down at the shirt I was wearing only to discover I wasn't wearing the shirt I wore yesterday. I was wearing Ashton's silk, red one – and I only noticed now.

"Uh, thanks," I replied, not mentioning the part where it wasn't mine. Or the part that I had mistakenly taken it when I rushed in the morning because Ashton delayed me. Or the part where I only now noticed this shirt wasn't mine. But it was better than noticing it when I took it off, which would've happened to me if Freya had kept her mouth shut.

"Good morning, everyone," Brian greeted and fixed his black thick glasses. Though it was really no use, his glasses usually ended up on the tip of his nose anyway. "There has been another attack close to Clerkenwell, we got an anonymous tip, I want someone to write about it before The Daily Mail is on it. Guys, we got the chance to set the agenda, okay?" Brian's blue-grey eyes scanned the table to seek out a candidate worthy of writing the story.

It was a long-shot really, either it could be a massive story like mine was with Mr Hackel's attempted murder. Or it could turn out to be a dead end. Only time would show.

"Hemmings, this one's yours," Brian declared, and I only nodded. I didn't know if I should be happy or not forgetting the story. If we'd run the story the article would be straight up my lane. I was, after all, a criminal journalist, but if it was just a bad tip, it would be waste of time, and I would end up writing a shitty article just to publish something.

The meeting strolled on without anything particular happening, and only minutes later when cases were handed out and people were done updating Brian on how their article was doing, we were dismissed. I, for one, was happy for being dismissed. Mostly because my mind still was very occupied with thoughts of Ashton and getting out of this stuffy room would clear my head. So, I hoped at least.

"So, who is it?" Freya Severance (26) was probably my closest colleague here at The Times. Not only because her desk was right next to mine, but also because Freya was extroverted and couldn't keep her mouth shut to save her life. Freya was very sociable, probably the reason so many people liked her here. Unlike me, I did have my colleagues' respect, but it was more because of the prizes I'd won than because of my personality. I could be very dismissing, I've been told.

"Who's who?" I asked in an attempt to act dumb, so I didn't have to talk about Ashton and my relation to him.

"The guy you risked getting late for, don't act stupid with me, Hemmings." Most of my colleagues knew I was gay, though I had never tried to come out to any of them. I never had planned to come out to my entire workplace, not because I couldn't, just because I didn't think it was their business. However, after Monica had repeatedly asked me out – with me repeatedly declining her request – I had blurted out that I was gay. Unfortunately, it happened during the morning meeting. Monica was embarrassed, I was just glad the problem was gone.

"I wasn't late," I protested but didn't continue when I locked eyes with Freya. She had a way of saying "shut up" with her eyes. Scary, yet fascinating.

"Now, c'mon. Who is he?" She continued to fuss, and I sighed in defeat.

"It's just a guy," I said, unsure what else I needed to tell. Should I tell her his name? How old he was? Was she more interested in how we met? Or how often I saw him? Frankly, I didn't see why it mattered. I never asked Freya about her relationship with Tom, unless it felt natural.

"He's not just a guy. You risked getting late for him, but when I suggested you'd join me and Tom for drinks, you couldn't because you had to work the next day, and you've known me for years. Who is this special guy, Hemmings?" She had her brows raised as she looked at me waiting for my answer, and I only shrugged slightly.

"He's just a guy I've been seeing, we don't even have a status yet. Don't even know if we will," I said, hoping it would satisfy Freya.

"Luke Hemmings prioritizing sex overwork, he must be a good fuck," Freya commented, before falling back in her chair laughing.

"Oh, shut up," I said, and hit her slightly, hoping she'd quit bugging me. Especially, since Freya was unable to keep her voice down.

"You didn't deny him being a good fuck, so, is he?"

"Would I keep seeing him if he wasn't?" I asked and tried to act cool. As if I was seeing Ashton just for sex. I wasn't. I kept seeing Ashton because there was something about him, I couldn't stay away from. Not because of the sex, but because of how I felt around his presence. How he made me laugh with his stupid remarks, and how he was absolutely breath-taking. Ashton was a package deal, he had everything. The quite opposite of me. All I was, was an over-worked, awkward workaholic who prioritized work over any social interaction.

"Touché," Freya replied, luckily ending the conversation there. She quickly disappeared from her desk, probably to get some coffee. The woman was addicted to coffee. (Even more, than I was.) Maybe that was the reason we got along so well? We were both addicts. I to my work, and her to coffee.

I sighed and clicked my pen as I tried to focus on my work. I sent a quick message to Brian asking to send me the tip we'd gotten. I didn't bother going before I'd read the message myself. Though Brian was able to discover a real tip from a scam, I would like to double-check myself. Was there one thing being a journalist had taught me it was to doublecheck facts.

There was nothing to do before Brian sent me the tip, or so I thought until my phone called. I didn't check the ID as I answered, just assuming it would turn out to be either Brian, Freya or Calum. However, it turned out to be none of them.

"Good morning, Luke," I heard Ashton's cheeky voice through the phone. I didn't know how I could tell, but I knew the brunet was still lying in bed, and I envied him. I loved my work, but right now I wished I still was sharing Ashton's double bed not having to worry about work or a story.

"Why didn't you tell me I was wearing our shirt?" I asked, not bothering to greet him back. The brunet obviously knew I could tell. He hadn't told me on purpose.

"You were rushing, and I didn't want to delay you any further," Ashton told, I didn't even believe that bad excuse. "Besides you looked good." That was the reason, I thought to myself.

"Did you call me to tell me I look good in your shirt?" I asked.

"Actually no. I called you to ask when you're picking up your belongings." No, that was the real reason.

"You can just throw my shirt in a bag and give it to Calum next time you're working," I said, "I'll send your shirt to a dry cleaner, and you can pick it up when it's ready."

"What about your fancy Armani clock?" Ashton asked I looked down on my wrist only to discover my clock wasn't with me. I cursed myself for forgetting it. It wasn't too expensive, and it didn't have any deeper meaning than being a clock, but I was used to wearing it. I liked to have it with me in case my phone battery died out of sudden. It was a nice reassurance.

"Just throw it in the bag too, it's not too important," I said.

"And the leather notepad? Isn't it kinda important?" I could hear his taunting voice, and I almost nodded until I remembered he couldn't see me.

"Yeah, fuck, I thought I had it with me. Whatever just put it in the bag," I replied. I could live a couple of days without it. I still had my phone with me.

"Are you thick?" Ashton asked, and I could hear the frustration in his voice.

"Well, you have seen me naked," I replied smugly, though I knew that wasn't what I meant.

"No, as in stupid. I'm giving you the perfect excuse for coming over, yet you keep declining me like you don't want to come."

"I know," I said, "I'm just teasing you. If you missed me that badly, you could just have said so."

"Stop being a dick about it and tell me when you're coming over."

"Why? You don't need to prepare anything, I'm just collecting my things."

"Because I'm making you dinner, now shut up and tell when you're dropping by," Ashton said, and I couldn't help but smile. Ashton was honestly out my league, why would he ever settle for someone like me?

"Fine, uh, five o'clock, I guess. If that works for you," I said unsure when I'd finish the article, but it couldn't take too long. It was just an article. Without any story to follow it up.

"Yeah that works for me, I'll see you then," with that Ashton hung up, leaving me in complete silence. It was fine with me though. I couldn't stop grinning like a love-sick fool, just because I knew that I'd get to see Ashton after work. A motivation for me to try to finish my work as quickly as I could.

[](https://ibb.co/pjTtzxh)

Myself with the clock I forgot at Ashton's. (Picture is taken by Ashton F. Irwin in Paris, France.)

"Damn it!" I heard coming from beside me, and my head moved to see what had happened. Next to me was Freya standing with a cup coffee, and I immediately thought that she had spilt coffee over herself. However, closer inspection told me that was not the case.

"What?" I asked to see why she found a reason to curse.

"You just got off from a call with lover-boy and I wasn't here to experience it," she said, as it was the greatest loss of history. It wasn't, and she wouldn't even have gotten much from only hearing one side of the conversation.

"I wasn't-..." I began, but Freya interrupted me.

"Don't deny it. Everything about you says that you just spoke to him. God, you're so sickly in love it hurts. Why didn't you tell me how whipped you are?"

"I'm not whipped," I denied. One thing was to admit to myself that I was but hearing it from others just wanted me to deny the accusations.

The second stabbing  
It turned out the anonymous tip wasn't fake, and there had been another accident close to Clerkenwell. The police didn't want to say if it was the same person behind the two recent stabbings, however, what I suspected was that it wasn't the case. Their methods were quite different, and despite the fact that it was located it in the same are it was more copy cat or someone who got inspired by the first stabbing. It could be totally unrelated too. I wasn't really here to give my thought of the two accidents, I was just here to report the case.

The man who'd been stabbed wasn't as hurt as Mr Hackel and only needed medical attention on the scene. Which was lucky for me, because it made it easier for me to interview him. He was lucky to only have minor injuries since the knife barely hit his side. Most likely the person behind it only did it to cause an injury, and never meant to kill the victim.

When I arrived at the scene a sand-blond male was seated in the backseat of an ambulance, packed in a grey wool blanket to keep him warm or provide comfort. I guessed the latter. It was obvious that this was Mason J. Lewis. Mason (34) was a tall guy and looked like he was the type that worked out – unlike me. However, the blanket made him seem smaller. I was probably taller than, but he wasn't far away from.

"Good day Mr Lewis, how are you feeling?" I asked politely, and he looked up at me and smiled slightly. Though it was forced.

"Better, they did a good thing wrapping me up," he joked before he showed me his side which was heavily wrapped in bandages. I assumed that if he could joke, he was able to do an interview, however, I couldn't really be sure before I asked.

"The name's Hemmings, I'm from The Times, and I wondered if I could do an interview?"

"Uh sure," he hesitated, "what's your first name?" He asked and sheepishly stretched an arm out to greet me. If I'd been a lady, he'd met at bar he'd probably be able to woo me over, having good looks and a somewhat charming personality. However, I was just a mere journalist.

"Luke," I replied and shook his hand. "Is it okay if I record the interview, Mr Lewis?"

"Sure, go ahead. And please, it's just Mason."

– So, Mason. Can you please tell me what happened? I asked.

– Yes, of course. I was on my way to work, and I just brushed into this ... guy.

– Could you tell it was a male? I interrupted, wanting to have my fact precise.

Mr Lewis was quiet for some time before he replied. – Well, yes. He bumped into me, and it was pretty harsh, and he was my height, I just assumed it was a male.

– Did you see him?

– Not his face, no. It all happened so fast. One moment I was walking to work minding my own business, the next I was on the floor screaming for help, bleeding. And the man was gone.

I continued the interview for a while longer before I thanked Mason for his time and for the interview before I headed over to a police officer and hoped to at least get a usable comment for the article. Though I had my doubts, they hated to spill the beans even when they didn't have beans to spill.


	6. Workplace's hottie is dating

Workplace's hottie is dating  
"Hey, Luke," Calum asked his voice was sweet like sugar, and I knew already that he was going to ask me for a favour why else was he calling me. Calum wished he was sly, when he was predictable, really.

"Good day to you, Cal," I answered, and decided to play obvious.

"Well, Luke, you know I've always considered you a good friend, not surprising you're a good person, aren't you?" Calum began, thinking he could woo me with his flatter, and although I was flattered it didn't do much more. 

"What do you want, Cal?" I sighed through the phone, and Calum slowly laughed. 

"Well, I was just thinking, would you be a darling and bring me lunch?" Calum asked. That was his motive I figured. By the way he talked I'd almost expected something worse, something that took more energy from me than just lunch. 

"Why would I? I'd waste my entire lunch just getting to you, it's half an hour drive away," I said, Calum wasn't exactly straight down the street. I'd waste too much time just getting there, I wouldn't even have the time to get eat my own lunch, not to mention that I'd never get back to work. 

"Because you love me?" It was more of a question than an argument. 

"I think you're mixing me with Michael," I joked, and Calum huffed. 

"Speaking of Michael, you're much closer to his café, so you can get me coffee and lunch there and get to me," Calum said. 

"So, this is what it's all about?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. 

"Well, yes. But of course, I'd love to see my best friend," Calum said, thinking that flatter would make me do it. 

"I'm not going," I told him getting ready to hang up, I'd be here and probably spending my lunch with Freya. 

"Great! See you 12," Calum said and hung up, ignoring what I had just told him. That fucker. I sighed; the worst thing was that I'd end up doing it either way. I was mostly free to take lunch whenever, and my interview wasn't before one o'clock. Until then was just killing time, I'd already done what could done, so I'd might as well go there, even if it was a waste of time. But I was just wasting here. 

Luke:  
Fine, I'll come, but you'll pay for my taxi 

Calum:  
Yes, I knew you would! 

Calum:  
You should just get a driver's licence 

Luke:  
Why would I? You and Michael's driving me everywhere, and I can take the subway and a taxi 

Luke:  
Talking about taxi, you're paying for it 

Calum:  
Fine, but you better bring good food

Luke:  
Have I ever disappointed you? 

A walk later to Michael's café, choosing my own favourite coffee for the both of us because I was a selfish brat, and a taxi drive later I was standing outside the headquarters for The Daily Mail. It felt sort of wrong to be here, this wasn't my workplace, and even if we did the same job, it felt like I didn't belong here. Almost like I was spying on them, like one used to do before. 

I entered the building and greeted the receptionist; however, she didn't ask me where I was going or who I was visiting. Maybe because I looked too much like a journalist, and I was – just not here. I'd been here before, so I stepped into the elevator and pressed the fourth floor remembering that's were Calum and I usually hung out, so I hoped it was the right floor. If it wasn't, I'd just call him and ask him to meet me. I wasn't about to get lost in this building. 

The elevator stopped on the third floor, and I sighed in irritation. I hated it when the elevator stopped midway and taking longer take to reach the destination I was headed to. However, the irritated sigh was turned to a surprised sound, when I saw the person on the other side of the elevator. I had expected a random person working, not Ashton Irwin. However, it was the honey-brunet that was on the other side. Not that I minded, I rarely minded when I saw Ashton. 

"Luke," Ashton said, but it was more of a question: He was just as surprised as me to see me here. It was understandable though; I didn't work here. For what I knew Ashton was minding his own business probably going to enjoy a quick lunch until he stumbled into me. Well, I wasn't exactly here to invade his work life; the thought of meeting Ashton hadn't even occurred to me. 

"Hey Ashton," I said sheepishly, and I realised how it must've looked where I was in Ashton's workplace with two coffees and two sandwiches. In my defence, I hadn't even thought of meeting Ashton. "I was going to see Calum," I said, raising he two coffees as evidence. 

"Calum?" Ashton asked as he walked into the elevator. "As in Calum Hood?" I didn't miss the frown that followed up. Calum hadn't been joking when he said that Ashton disliked him. Maybe "the grumpy guy" suited Ashton? But I didn't know him as such. If I were to describe him I'd probably call him something along the lines of "the hot guy" which could only reflect how fast I was falling for Ashton. 

"Yeah," I confirmed before Ashton pressed the button for the fifth floor. 

"You know him?" he asked, as the elevator doors closed slowly. Again, he frowned, was Ashton frowning because of Calum or because I knew Calum? Judging from what Calum had told me Ashton wasn't too fond of him (with good reasons). 

"He's dating my best mate, well, actually, I guess he has become one of my closest friends over the years," I said with a shrug. Despite knowing Calum for years, the first year were spent in useless bickering of who deserved to spend time with Michael the most "the boyfriend" or "the best friend of many years". (Calum usually won.) Then we were back at it again when we found out we were working for rivalling bureaus. In a way I was still used to look at Calum as my rival, even though he wasn't; not anymore at least. 

"Oh," Ashton replied, and there was something about his tone I couldn't interpret. Was he interested? Was he irritated? Jealous? Was he annoyed with me, or Calum? Or the both of us? It was impossible to tell with Ashton; he was like a book written in a language I didn't understand. Open for whoever to read it, but I could only understand the words that were similar in English. 

The elevator stopped and made that annoying sound to signal that we had stopped as if it wasn't clear already. "Isn't this your floor?" Ashton asked when I made no sign of moving like I didn't even plan on moving. And frankly, I didn't. The second I met Ashton I kind of already knew I'd end up dropping my plans for Calum to be with Ashton. 

"What do you say about lunch?" I said raising my brought items. 

"And what about Calum?" Ashton asked and smiled smugly, almost like he knew that I'd end up ditching Calum for Ashton. Knowing Ashton, he had probably expected it, because I was so whipped for Ashton you could just call me cream. 

"Calum's an adult, he can buy lunch himself," I replied, even though sometimes I had my doubts if Calum was an adult or he was just a child trapped inside a man's body. Ashton hummed pleased probably already knowing from when he saw me that the two of us would end up having lunch together, whether I wanted it or not. Him asking about Calum wasn't because he cared about my previous plans or Calum at all, it was just him wanting me to voice aloud what he already knew. That I'd choose Ashton above Calum. 

The elevator closed and we moved on floor up before the two of us headed out, I trailed behind Ashton like a lost puppy. I occurred to me how strange it was having lunch here at a rivalry bureau, but I quickly shook that thought away. Nothing was going to stop me from spending time with Ashton, not even eating lunch at The Daily Mail's headquarters and end up late. The brunet led us into a small meeting room meant for only a small group consisting of no more than eight people. The room had white walls, except for the one wall which was just a large window. Inside the middle of the room was a large table with chairs packed around it. Aside from a TV hanging on one of the walls, probably to show some sort of presentation, the room was empty. But it didn't really matter.  
The room gave privacy and also peace to work if that was needed. 

"I hope you like caramel latte," I said giving one of the coffee's to Ashton, and Ashton smiled slightly before he took a sip of the coffee. 

"It's alright," Ashton said, before taking another sip of the coffee. 

"What do you mean by alright, it's bloody delicious," I said, before taking a sip of my now lukewarm coffee. 

"I'm not too fond of sweet things," Ashton said, yet he kept drinking the coffee. "I prefer tea." 

"And yet you're fond of me," I said and winked. Ashton ended up coughing loudly for nearly a minute before the coughing turned into laughter. 

"Well, you're not wrong," Ashton said when he finally managed to calm down. "But I still prefer some good ol' tea, if you get what I mean, mate." 

"God, you're so British," I said trying not to laugh of Ashton's stupid dad jokes. 

"Rubbish," Ashton muttered, clearly doing it on purpose. 

"I didn't see The Daily Mail write anything on the second stabbing, I thought I'd see you there," I said after a while before I took a bite of my sandwich, looking at Ashton as he smiled slightly. However, it was just a polite smile you showed some random stranger that showed you an act of kindness. No, it was fonder.

"Well, we dis write something small about it, but I was on another case. The police found some creepy graveyard for dead tortured animals, and man I'm telling you that shit was creepy," Ashton said. "The police think it's one person behind everything, and my god I don't want to think about. How can some people be so fucked up? Who could do shit like that to kittens and puppies?" 

[](https://ibb.co/99zCVm9)

Ashton Irwin claims to love tea, yet he always orders an americano. 

"I don't know," I answered, "people are fucked up." It wasn't a good reply, but it was what I had to offer. As a journalist I'd know how people were fucked up, it was after all my job to write about it. I wrote about every little fucked up thing people of the society did. What was maybe a bit more fucked up was the way the society enjoyed reading about these fucked up things. 

"But puppies," Ashton said, and I laughed. 

"Eh, Ashton," I said as I looked outside the window-wall, "why are people staring at us, specifically, me?" I asked as I noticed a group of people was eyeing the scene. I felt like my privacy was violated even though they couldn't hear our conversation. Now, the people weren't standing outside the room in a group eyeing our every move, but they were sitting at their desks looking at us every now and again too often for it to be a coincidence. 

"Oh lord," Ashton mumbled, and locked eyes with some of his colleagues, "they're all so prying," Ashton complained before he lied his head in his hands in embarrassment. I couldn't help but laugh. 

"Let me guess, workplace's hottie rejects every women and man but doesn't seem to date either. Some people have noticed your hickeys, and keep asking about it, but you won't spare any details, making people curious. And now that I'm here people's just more curious about who this 'mystery man' is," I said, and if the visible blush wasn't a good enough answer his actually answer was. 

"Something like that," Ashton mumbled embarrassed and kept looking at the table so he wouldn't meet my stare. I couldn't help but laugh again. 

"That's adorable," I said between my laughs. 

"To you, yeah," Ashton grumbled, and his blush didn't seem to fade any time soon. To me it didn't matter, I thought he was adorable like that. 

"Don't worry, Freya's bugging me about you too," I said to make him feel better, even though it was the truth. 

"Oh, what did she say?" Ashton asked, suddenly turning in to the sly bastard I knew too well, but also liked too much. 

"That we should double date," I replied, and the mortified look was back on his face. 

"Out of the question," Ashton answered quickly, and I nodded as a reply. 

"That's what I said too," I said agreeing. Double dated were awkward, and you only cared about one person at the table, so why not have a separate date? "Besides I want you to myself. I don't like sharing," I followed up, and the blush that seemed to be fading returned quickly on Ashton's cheeks. I bet Ashton was glad he was facing me and not his colleagues so they wouldn't see how much he was blushing.


	7. Police inspector Merrick

Phone talks  
I was disturbed by my vibrating phone that seemed to ring forever even though it hadn't been more than a couple of seconds, but maybe that was just my mood today? Annoyed to the point that even the smallest things would spark an annoyance in me? Though I couldn't figure out why that would be. Overall, my time lately had been amazing, mostly because I'd spent it with the one and only Ashton Irwin, my supposedly rival, but also lover and companion. 

"Hello?" I asked groggily frowning slightly as I saw the clock. I could've been sleeping for twenty minutes more, but Calum seemed to have a life or death crisis that just couldn't wait. At least I assumed he was having a crisis because if not I'd probably go into a bad mood for the remainder of the day. 

"Morning sleepyhead," he chirped, and I groaned. I knew Calum by now, he was definitely not having a crisis. So, he woke me up for no reason. 

"What do you want, you little fucker?" I asked, and he replied by laughing obnoxiously. 

"Are you and Ashton sleeping together?" He asked, and my frown deepened. It wasn't secret, but it wasn't really his business either, so I told him so.

"My sex life is none of your business," I replied bluntly. 

"Oh, c'mon you owe me," Calum said quickly, "you didn't bring my lunch last Wednesday and I saw your lover-boy walking around with coffee from Michael's coffee shop. Probably what was meant to be my coffee." 

My face flushed, and I remained silent for a little while, "it's not like that," I promised quickly. Making it less believable than it already was. "I just happened to run into him first." 

"Okay, Hemmings. I'm done playing nice, are you or are you not having sex with Irwin. There's a rumour saying he ate lunch with a hot, blond, tall guy, and I need to know if my best friend is a bloody traitor or not," Calum went off on a long rant, but I tuned him out after a while, my mind was still too tired to deal with this kind of thing. 

"Okay, yeah we're having sex, happy?" I asked just so Calum would quick. The line went silent for a few seconds before the silence was replaced by roaring laughter. Calum laughed and laughed for minutes straight and I ended up taking the phone away from my ear so I wouldn't have to hear it. 

"Oh my God, this explains a lot!" Calum exclaimed, "like how he's been much happier lately, he even shared a source with me! Ashton's has an ungodly number of good sources, like how can he know exactly the right people all the time?" 

"I've noticed, he shares his sources sometimes, they're pretty good," I commented. 

"He shares his sources with you?" Calum asked surprised. 

"Is that a big deal?" I asked back, Ashton had done it several times, and I had returned the favour when I could.

"Yes!" Calum yelled, "oh my god, he seriously likes you!" He continued over enthusiastically. 

"By sharing sources?" I asked sceptically, Calum seemed to be drawing weird conclusions in my opinion. 

"You wouldn't know," Calum replied quickly, "Ashton's sources are a big deal. He knows anyone worth knowing, yet he rarely shares their contact information unless he needs something from you, which he rarely does from me. Or actually ... when I think about it, Ashton said hi to me today. Does he know I know you? Is he using me to get laid? Luke, you know I'm the worst wingman ever," Calum went off on a new long rant. 

"Why would he need you to set him up with me?" I asked, "he already have my number." 

"Okay thanks, Luke," Calum replied ironically, "I felt useful for a second there, but you know how to tear someone's confidence down, don't you?" 

"Don't be a dramatic, whiney bitch, it doesn't suit you," I replied, not even caring for Calum's supposedly destroyed self-confidence. 

"But are you two really sleeping together?" Calum asked as if he had to verify my previous answer. 

"Yes," I laughed, "do you want a list of how many times?" 

"No, no, no," Calum was quick to reply, "just keep doing what you're doing." 

"Okay, thanks?" I asked a bit uncertain, "I don't really need your approval or your permission though." 

"But lately Ashton's been ... less grumpy, and I think it's the sex, so keep doing what you're doing," Calum hesitated for a bit before he continued. "Yeah good talk, bye," and with that, he hung up on me leaving me startled in bed. What an odd conversation. I yawned slightly and looked at the watch I had retrieved at Ashton's. It was a bit earlier than when I usually got up, but I was already up and saw no point of dwelling n bed, so I got up and got ready for work. This I did have time for breakfast and had time to eat it at home instead of rushing to the underground. 

Police inspector Merrick  
At the morning meeting, I was assigned a horrible case. Definitely, one that would get many hits, but also one that would be horrible to write and interview the poor victim. There had been an attempted rape down-town, and no one wanted the case of obvious reasons. Because it would hard to be completely neutral and just to get the interview would be difficult in itself. So, of course, I was the one assigned to the task. I grumbled about it to Freya for an hour when I tried to contact the poor girl and her parents to no avail. 

"Fuck it," I grumbled after hearing the voice mail for probably the tenth time. "I'm going down there, and I'm, not leaving until I get that bloody interview." I gathered my things with as much irritation I could muster, and Freya looked at me as if I was humouring her. 

"That's not a good idea," she warned, and I shrugged.

"Well, I'm not getting it by sitting here," I replied as I checked I had my leather block and a pen. I couldn't care less for the other things to be honest, even if I did like the camera, I didn't find it important – I just needed my most priced possessions. When I had everything – camera and phone included – I took off. 

"I'm telling you, it's not gonna work!" Freya shouted after me but did nothing to stop me. So, she had some faith in me, and I shrugged slightly. I took my grey wool coat and wrapped it around me, not stopping once to look back at her. She didn't think I could pull it off, and I didn't know if I could, but at the same time, we both knew that if there was someone that could pull it off, it was probably me. 

"I'm gonna make it work," I called back, and with that, I was out of The Times' headquarter. I took the first taxi I saw and headed down to the police station, a contact of me said that she was there. 'She' being Amber Wright, the almost rape victim. The assaulted. 

"To the City of London Police station, please," I said to the taxi driver, and he took off to the station. The drive wasn't long at all from the news building to the police station, and there was less traffic, so I was there within twenty minutes. I paid as quickly as the car stopped and got my change back before I went into the station, I'd been here too many times before. It almost felt like I was working here too. 

"Good morning," I greeted the receptionist that was typing away on something, she glanced up at me and smiled a small smile. I didn't know if she recognized form my many visits or if she was generally nice. Didn't matter much either. 

"Is it possible if I could see Mister Merrick? I don't have an appointment, but uh ... we're good acquaintances, so if he's not busy he'll be happy to see me." It wasn't a lie, Zack liked me most days, but he had the days where he was a grump mostly because he was stressed. However, I knew that he liked me a lot better than other journalists, usually, because I wasn't as prying and complaining as others. Though there was no lie that I could be a real bitch sometimes. Zack thought so too. 

"He's busy at the moment, but if you'll take a seat, he'll get to you soon enough, but I'll have to warn you though. There's a lot of people waiting to speak with him," she smiled, and I nodded before I thanked her. I looked at some people at the people seated, and I immediately understood they were all journalists. I didn't have the time to wait for them to interview police inspector Merrick before me, just so my article would be late, so I found my phone and called the man myself. 

[ ](https://ibb.co/1zF7HhV)

Police inspector Merrick the picture was taken by me of summer 2019. 

"Good morning," Zack replied on the second ring, he sounded tired and I could only assume that he'd pulled an all-nighter. 

"What could I possibly do for you, Luke?" he wondered, with a thick American accent. Zack had never told me why he'd moved from the states to London, but he kept cursing the presidents, so I'd always assumed it had something to do with the system that he disagreed with. 

"What, I can't just call my good mate and have a nice conversation?" I asked, a joking tone evident in my voice. "While you're working?" Zack deadpanned, and I grinned stupidly. 

"Okay, you caught me. Is there a tiny chance I get to cut the line and interview you before anybody else?" I said and was almost certain that the police inspector would agree. 

"You know you're my favourite journalist, of course, you can. You're late yanno, I've been sitting here my office waiting for you, the first guy showed up twenty minutes ago. You have to step up your game, Hemmings," he teased, and I laughed. I promised it wouldn't happen again before I hung up. 

With that, I walked the familiar way to Zack's office. I knocked twice but didn't wait for approval to come in before I walked in. Inside sat Zack Merrick (31), police inspector at City of London Police station. The interview went fine, you can read it here, and I heard later that Zack had only allowed this one interview. Which had pissed off a lot of other news bureaus. 

Off record, I asked Zack if he thought it was possible if he could help me interview the poor victim. "I don't think it's possible, I'm afraid," Zack began, "I can't stop you, obviously. But the lawyer is quite strict." 

"Where can I find them?" I asked and pulled out my leather notebook. 

"This is very off record," Zack began and hesitated for a little while, "but she's at The Royal London Hospital," he answered. I scribbled it down, even though I doubted that I'd forget it. I nodded at Zack and smiled, and with a promise of seeing him soon I was out of the police station. I caught a taxi on my way out, and the drive was fairly short. No more than ten minutes. 

Eric Floch 

[](https://ibb.co/p49Zkmt)

The Royal London Hospital, this is where Amber Wright was hospitalised. 

The interview at the hospital didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped. I had hoped for a quick in and out, but as I walked into the building, I realised it wouldn't be as easy. The journalists at the police station were nothing to the crowd here. Journalists were always easy to spot, maybe because I was one myself, maybe because I spent so much time around other journalists. I didn't know, but I knew that all the people in the waiting room were journalists. All equally as eager as me to be the first to write this case. 

"Luke, what are you doing here?" a familiar voice said, and I turned around only to meet Ashton's hazel eyes. I'd seen him only days prior, but I'd missed him. I restrained myself from leaping into his touch and kiss him, using almost all of my inner strength to act casual. 

"The same thing as you," I assumed, but given that the two of us were both journalists, mostly writing the same types of cases, I knew I was right. 

"Well, good luck, the lawyer's a bicth, won't let anyone see her. She even said she'd let someone interview her; a nurse told me. But the arse won't budge," Ashton told me before he flashed one of his beautiful smiles. 

"What's his name?" I asked out of curiosity, and Ashton laughed slightly. I couldn't help but grin along, even if he was laughing slightly at me. 

"It's not gonna help, but he's name is Eric Floch. I heard he's really strict on any case, apparently, he has bad blood with journalists. Don't know what it is though," Ashton shrugged before he smiled one of those carefree smiles. Those smiles one couldn't help but adore. "Floch, really?" I asked, and Ashton nodded informatively. 

"He owes me one," I said. "Guess it's time to cash in that favour." With that, I grabbed Ashton's hand and dragged him with me. 

"Luke, what are you doing?" Ashton asked, and by his tone, I could hear he was flustered, "not here," he continued much lower. I couldn't help but smirk at that, although it was tempting, I had no such intentions in mind. It didn't take much time, but I found Floch by the coffee machines, he glanced at us slightly before he returned to his business as if his coffee was more important than Ashton and me. I let go of Ashton's wrist before I started to talk, but he began before I had the chance to. 

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Miss Wright will not be taking any interviews, she's suffered a traumatic event, now would you please act like some decent human beings and give a poor soul some peace. Get out of this hospital if you have some decency," he said, and I smiled slightly. 

"Mister Floch?" I asked, and he turned around to look at me. "I was wondering if you'd allow this one interview," I pointed at Ashton, "that's my apprentice, Mister Irwin." 

"Hemmings," Eric greeted me before he hugged me, I awkwardly returned the hug. "Of course, I'll allow you the interview. I know I can trust you, you're not like the other vultures, you actually have a shred of decency." I laughed and he walked us to the hospital room. 

"So, how is she?" I asked as we walked towards her room. If she really was traumatised, I wouldn't interview her. If she was traumatised, she wouldn't be thinking straight, and she could say something she'd regret. 

"A bit shook up," Eric began, "but she's fine, her mum's there, and I think that helped." We got into the room and was met by a young, brunette lady in a hospital bed. Next to her on the chair was an older version of her, and I immediately assumed she was the mum. The girl seemed happy and healthy, but as Floch had said, she seemed a bit nervous. She was surrounded by flowers, and I wished I thought of giving her flowers, but it was too late now. 

"Hey Amber, this is Mister Hemmings and Mister Irwin, they're here to interview you if that's alright?" Floch asked, and she grinned and nodded. 

"Am I going to be on the front page?" she asked, and her smile widened. 

"Something like that," Ashton replied, and she nodded. 

"When you're as pretty as you, there's no doubt," I said and winked at her. She giggled and seemed to flush slightly. 

"Is it alright if I record the interview? If I ask something you don't want to reply, just say 'pass', okay?" She nodded and then confirmed it was alright I recorded the interview. – So, Miss Wright, where were you when this happened, I asked. 

– Well, I don't know the exact address, but I was in the Clerkenwell area, she replied with ease. 

– Did you see or hear him coming before he attacked? Ashton asked as he scribbled notes hastily. 

– No, it was dark, and quiet and then suddenly I was pushed into this wall and dragged towards an alley? I'm not quite sure, but ..., she paused for a second. 

– I think I maybe heard some footsteps before that. I could be imaging things, I'm not sure. 

– Did you get a look at him? I asked. 

– Not really, I was more busy screaming and fighting him off, she laughed slightly, but not because it was funny. 

– As I told the police, he was wearing this mask? But not something flashy, I think he was afraid of getting noticed. He was tall and strong, but not taller than you. He seemed older, but that's just a feeling I got, you know, she trailed off and smiled slightly at me. Ignoring Ashton completely. We asked her a few questions more before we thanked her for the interview. The full article is available here. As Ashton and I left the hospital, he turned and looked at me. 

"Why did you do that?" he asked. 

"Help you with the interview? I mean, don't you remember us being in the same situation before, only reversed? I just did what you did back then," I said and smiled slightly. 

"No, not that," Ashton replied quickly, "why did you flirt with her?" 

"What? Oh, that was nothing," I said and brushed it off, but I could still see Ashton's visible frown. I hadn't meant any harm by it, but had Ashton still taken offence? He knew he was the only one I was seeing at the moment, but maybe he still got jealous? 

"Are you jealous?" I asked with disbelief in my voice. I couldn't believe he would get riled up at something so harmless. "No!" Ashton denied instantly, letting me know that he definitely was. 

"It's just that," he began as he wrapped his arms around me, "you're all mine," he finished, and kissed me quickly. I cocked an eyebrow at he and smirked slyly. 

"So, you're not jealous?" I teased him, wrapping my own arms around him.

"Definitely not," Ashton replied, before he leaned and kissed me one more time. I returned the kiss without hesitation. We both knew he was, but I wasn't going to insist on the matter, and let it slide. When we were done, we kept walking as if nothing had ever happened. "How do Floch owe you one, anyway?" Ashton asked, his hazel eyes sparkling with curiousness as he studied me. 

"Years ago, he's daughter was at this party were this accident happened, and everyone angled their story as she was the person behind the entire things. I wrote mine differently, because I didn't look for a scapegoat. I mean, I didn't do much I just wrote the truth, but Eric felt like he was indebted to me, because I cleared his daughter's name," I said as I gave Ashton's hand a light squeeze, Ashton smiled warmly at me, and as a hopeless fool I smiled an equally strong smile back. 

"He's a good source though," Ashton commented, and I agreed. 

"Speaking of sources, I heard you rarely share sources, but you do with me. A rival," I said, and snickered slightly at Ashton's flushed face. "Don't get cocky now, Hemmings. You know I like you," Ashton tried to brush it off casually, but his red blush spoke for itself. 

"How can I not get cocky when I know that you like me?" I said and smiled a fond smile at Ashton. Ashton's blush increased as he smiled an equally as foolish smile back at me. 

"Shut up," he said, but I knew he didn't mean it.


	8. The Letter

The Letter  
April 24th, I don't think I'll ever forget that day. It was a Sunday; I started the day slowly with no need to hurry. I appreciated my free days and tried not to waste them in doing work or other things. I didn't have plans to meet Ashton today, but knowing how we were we'd probably end up seeing each other at the end of the day. If I didn't ask him to come over, he would probably text me to come to his. It was weird, I hadn't had a serious relationship in a long time, and now I couldn't even comprehend how I'd go through a week without seeing Ashton. 

I poured coffee into a white cup and looked out my kitchen window, the view wasn't much from my apartment. It was just the street, that looked like a stereotypical English street you'd see in movies. My apartment was on the third floor, so I saw the street from above, but it was a quiet street so there weren't any passing cars or anything. The weather was cloudy, but I could tell it was warm, my neighbours' garden was getting greener, and the trees planted in the pavement was slowly blossoming. It was a quite beautiful view, or at least I could remember thinking so when I first moved here. Now I had grown too accustomed to it and couldn't see the beauty in it. The coffee cup warmed my chilly hands and I drank the beverage slowly, there was nothing that could compare to black coffee in the silent morning. 

Still, I was in my pyjamas, but I had no desire to change out of it as of now. Instead, I walked slowly to my living room and went to my vinyl player and dragged out my favourite Pink Floyd album. The tunes of "Speak To Me" played serenely as I continued my quiet morning, and I only hummed along. The only thing that could make this morning better would be a certain brunette by my sides. I cast all ideas of Ashton away quickly and tried to think of something else. I didn't want my entire life to revolve about the man, and I didn't want to seem obsessed either. I was smitten by Ashton, and I liked him a lot, but we hadn't exactly established a relationship. The only thing we'd established was that we didn't do others. 

My blue eyes searched the room and it landed on my numerous plants, it had been a while since I'd watered them, and I decided to do precisely that. They didn't seem to have died on me yet, which was a relief, I wasn't exactly the best plant keeper and always forgot to water them the same day because of my work schedule. The plants seemed fine though, so it didn't seem like a problem. When I was done, I stood silently in the living room for just a while, before I decided to make myself some breakfast. I was hardly a decent cook, if anyone was it would be Ashton, and decided to do it plain and simple. Toast with avocado. I doubted Ashton would be impressed by me if I made him dinner, but then again, I hadn't grown up with a French father that would teach me the art of culinary. I scrolled through the news from different British news sources before I switched to international news bureaus. My toast popped out of the toast machine, and I made my breakfast quickly. 

I turned to my tablet to continue reading The New York Times when my phone called. I searched for it slightly before I found it. The caller didn't surprise me at all. It was from Ashton. I could feel myself smiling before I picked up the phone and put it on speaker. 

"Good morning," I greeted Ashton, I could practically hear the smile in my own voice. 

"Hey Luke," Ashton said and paused for a second. 

"What's the matter?" I asked and took a bite of my toast. 

"Nothing really," Ashton began slowly, "I just missed your voice, I guess." I had to laugh slightly at that. Not because I was making fun of Ashton, but I found it adorable. I stated as much. 

"That's adorable." If I was there, I'd bet £10 that he was blushing. 

"Ah hush you," Ashton began, "are you coming over later?" Ashton asked me after a slight pause. 

"I don't know, do you want me to?" I asked. 

"I wouldn't ask you if I didn't want you to, now would I?" I could definitely hear his smirk through the phone, and I found my own smile growing a few sizes. 

"I guess not," I answered his question if it was mostly rhetorical. "When do you want me to come over?" 

"I don't know," Ashton hesitated, "I just know I want to see you; I can text you when I know for sure?" He continued, and he sounded a little distracted, but I didn't pay it much time. Ashton was usually doing something else when he was on the phone. He also had the talent of over-working himself, well I guess we both shared that talent. 

"Works for me," I said, "or you could just come to mine when you're free." 

"Yeah, but whenever we're at yours we order take-out, and I want proper food." 

"What's wrong with take-out?" 

"Nothing, 's just I want a proper meal. Cooked and home-made, and I've seen your kitchen, Lukey," Ashton began and continued to insult my kitchenette. Something about having too little pots, and just two fry pans. And something about a saucepan? Pretty sure, there was some French thrown in there too. 

"Ah, shut up, you prude," I interrupted him, but it was just friendly banter, 

"I'll come to yours since you have your beloved kitchen, and mine fails to satisfy your needs." 

"I didn't say that," Ashton began. 

"Yes, you did, Irwin. And you made it exceptionally clear too," I continued to tease him. We both knew we weren't serious at all, and I mase more than happy to take the underground to his place. Just like Ashton didn't have much of a problem staying at my flat. I was about to continue our bickering when I heard a knock on the door. Ashton was in the middle of telling me about his dinner plans. 

"Hold up, Ash," someone I said as I went to my door. "Someone knocked on the door." 

"Who could it be?" Ashton asked, "do you have plans to meet anyone?" I quickly told him no. 

"It's probably just a neighbour since the bell didn't ring," I said, not thinking more about it. "Maybe it's the sweet Miss Eagar, she probably ran out of sugar or something," I continue with ease, and went for the door. Out of habit I checked through the peephole but saw no one. I found that strange, but I still opened the door. When I locked open the door I was met with the empty hallway, it was dark. Someone must've turned off the lights. Aside from the lights, there was nothing amiss. There was no one dare, but I knew I had heard something. 

"What is it?" Ashton asked when I had stayed silent for a long time. 

"There's no one there," I mumbled. I couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something going on, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. 

"How strange," Ashton muttered, but he was just background noise. My brows furrowed as I searched the hallway, but I found nothing. My blue eyes landed on the doormat, and my eyes widened. There was an envelope there. I picked it up without hesitation before I was inside my flat once again, making sure I locked my door just in case someone was still out there. 

"I guess I'll hang up," I muttered in the phone still a bit distracted, but Ashton didn't seem to notice as he bid goodbye, with a promise of seeing me later. A small smile graced my lips before it disappeared. What was the deal about the envelope? Why had it been delivered anonymously on my doorstep? What did it contain? I didn't think it could be dangerous or something of sorts, that didn't cross my mind. Instead, I ripped open the letter but was gravely disappointed. I didn't know what exactly I had expected, but it surely wasn't what I got. What I got was a piece of paper with dots and lines. 

[ ](https://ibb.co/nB78cjm)

This is the letter I received on my doormat, 24th of April 2019. 

My brows furrowed once again, what could this mean? Maybe it was a joke. I tossed the paper on a table before I went back to my kitchen, my coffee had grown cold by now and I poured it down the sink and started making myself a new one. The letter was still on my mind, but I couldn't quite make sense of it. Dots and lines what sort of meaning did it have? It had to be some sort of code, but what code. My mind pondered, but I hardly knew the names of codes. As the coffee made itself, I turned to my tablet and made a quick Google search, but my search was somewhat unsuccessful. Most sources talked about coding and programming. I tried Secret codes.

This time a lot more successful, I clicked onto the first news article about teaching your kids secret codes as an art of communication. There were lots of examples, American Sign Language, Tap Code or Phonetic Alphabet. None of these caught my eyes as they were mostly visual, however, one did. Morse code. Could the letter I received be a morse code? I quickly retrieved the letter again and compared it to the picture. It looked a lot alike. Maybe it could be? 

I set to work immediately, coffee was all but forgotten. I worked for five minutes, ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, without a result. It was hard to decipher, and I messed up several times. However, when I was certain I'd done it, I was left with numbers. Could this be correct? Why would someone deliver a letter in morse code at my door, but the letter revealed nothing of importance, just a bunch of numbers. I felt disappointed, I was certain there was more to it than just numbers. Or maybe, maybe the numbers were a code in itself? I looked at the numbers, but I couldn't decipher them. I was hardly good at math and hoped it wasn't a difficult algebra task. If so, the code would be lost forever. However, it didn't look like algebra or math at all. It looked like something entirely else. 

Like coordinates. 

I felt like I had my eureka moment and was quickly back to my tablet again. My fingers typed coordinates and clicked onto the first website that could translate it into an address. I double-checked the numbers, and that I had typed them correctly before I clicked the blue button 'Get Address'. My breath hitched as the side loaded. Somehow, I feared the result. I didn't know what I feared the most something nearby or something far away. The side loaded, and the first thing I realised was, that it was in London. Fuck. It could only mean I've been successful in breaking the code. But what was so special about Whiskin St? 

The body  
I didn't know what compelled me to do it, but I ran out barely taking my belongings and coat with me. I locked the door in a rush before I found myself a black taxi. 

"Whiskin Street, please?" I said. I didn't know what I would find on the street. There could be nothing there and I would be wasting my time, but I didn't think so. Someone had delivered in secret an encrypted letter on my door, and it led me to this street. It had to mean something. However, I was scared. Fearing the worst. The entire ride I sat anxiously making up several scenarios in my head. What would meet me at the location? 

Would there be a new puzzle? A person? Nothing? I was scared of hoping, but at the same time, I knew there couldn't be anything good. There couldn't be. There was too much of a mystery around the entire letter, and how it came in my possession. Who had delivered the letter to me? And how had they managed to come into my apartment complex? Why had decided to give the letter to me? I couldn't make sense of any of it, maybe some of the answers would be at the location. However, I hardly believed it. This was some sort of twisted game, even if I didn't know the game's rules or purpose. But there was something to this letter, and I didn't like it one bit. 

The city flashed before me, but I hardly noticed. I couldn't focus on anything, and when the driver asked me questions I replied hastily and unfocused. I could hardly keep a conversation because my mind was raging. The driver decided to keep quiet when he realised, I wasn't much of a talker. My mind was dimensions and dimesons away from this taxi. I barely even registered that we were getting closer. The taxi came to an abrupt halt, and I paid without caring I gave too much tip. My mind was elsewhere as I walked mindlessly through the street. What had the sender of the letter wanted me to see? I saw it before I managed to process. I stopped dead in my tracks not knowing what to do. 

First, I didn't even believe what was in front of me. I blinked. And then again. It didn't disappear or move an inch. In front of me was the body of a dead girl. I fooled myself to think she was sleeping, on top of her was a note. It was in morse, I recognized as much, but I couldn't decipher here. Somehow, I knew it was for me, and I snatched it, but I didn't touch her. She wasn't moving or breathing. She was dead. I had seen bodies before, but never up so close. My stomach hurled at the vision, and it felt like I needed to vomit. I hurled away from here before I regained my senses. 

"Oh my god," I whispered to myself. She was dead. The letter had led me to a dead girl. It felt like I had to puke again, but I refused to lose control. I needed to call the police. 

[](https://ibb.co/MhgSGn5)


End file.
